


Twisted Mirrors

by little_toad_of_music



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27464785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_toad_of_music/pseuds/little_toad_of_music
Summary: A fanfiction following the characters of Phantom of the Opera from the end of the first musical to the years following Love Never Dies. I will probably stick pretty close to the plot of the ALW musicals, but may include elements of Kay or Leroux and am looking forward to giving the story my own flair. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this work is narrated by Christine Daaé.

Many, many years ago, I was given the nickname of Little Lotte for the first time. I believe it was Raoul, and not Father, who first made Lotte’s name synonymous with my own, on a cold night in autumn when he was visiting us. Father had played the violin for us that night, and tried to teach Raoul a few notes, and I had sung along to his music as I so often did, and we were all carefree and happy and innocent for a time. That night, Father told us wonderful stories by the fire, tales of mystery and magic and loveliness, and we listened eagerly until the fire began to die down, upon which Father told us that it was time for bed, since we had no more coal. He retired to bed himself, but Raoul and I had no such intention, and stole away to the attic as we had done so often. 

Father’s tales had kindled the adventurous spirits within us, and, with the stump of a candle that we had secreted away for this very purpose, we happily curled up in a nest of blankets together with our favorite old leather book of ghost stories. Half breathless with excitement, we perused the yellow pages, reading them aloud to each other in our most haunting voices and using the candlelight to cast eerie shadows on our faces, heightening the delightful thrill of it all. 

As Raoul read me story after story, I curled up closer to him, half afraid of the grotesque faces he made in the candlelight, but wanting to be as close to another human being as possible, lest my courage deserted me. Emboldened by his success, he turned to the very back of the book, which contained the most thrilling tales, pages that even we had not yet dared to profane with our trembling fingers. And he read me the tale of the Cornish bard, who was said to have gone quite mad after his wife and children perished in a fire, and traveled the countryside, pouring his grief and madness into his song, and the legend was that whoever heard it would be subjected to the agony of the devouring flames forevermore. However, there was a young woman who fell in love with him despite the torture that his music inflicted on her, and he grew to love her as dearly as she loved him. They loved each other so much that they could not bear to be apart from one another, but neither could he bear to see her nor she him because of the agony that his song brought her. One day, the pain drove her quite to insanity, and she lit her house aflame without quite meaning to and burned to death inside, and, when the bard learned what she had done, he killed himself in remorse. And it was said that they were reunited in death, barred from heaven because of their suicide but saved from hell because of their love, and so they traversed the countryside together, free from pain but forever bringing the burning sensation of the flame to all who heard their song, a terrible fate which would in time claim the listeners’ lives as well. 

I shuddered as Raoul finished, imagining that I perhaps could hear that ghostly chorus in the wind as it whistled around the attic. The idea haunted and terrified me; it turned music from a thing of beauty and light into a thing of cruelty and darkness, a harbinger of death and destruction and heartbreak. I said as much to Raoul, and he laughed, wrapping a reassuring arm around me. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he told me. “I’m here to protect you, and it’s only a story. Don’t you like stories?” 

“I do,” I protested, “just not scary stories like that one. It makes me afraid to listen for music on the wind, lest by chance it really were the Cornish bard. And it must be horrible to feel as though you were burning forever and ever.”

“Well then, I’ll tell you a different story, and you’ll forget all about the Cornish bard, and you won’t be afraid any more.”

“Tell me about Little Lotte again,” I begged him. “And tell me about her Angel of Music, so I can pretend I’m listening for him instead of for some ghost.”

“I thought your father already told that story tonight.”

“He did— but it’s so beautiful, and I want to hear it again— please, Raoul.”

“Oh, alright then.” And Raoul began the tale of Little Lotte, and I listened, enraptured with every word, my fears forgotten. When he had finished, he looked back at me. 

“See, you needn’t be frightened. You’re like Lotte more than anything, and the angel would protect you from anything that tried to hurt you.”

“But I’m not really like Lotte,” I protested. “I—”

“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “You needn’t argue, Christine; I mean it. You’re Little Lotte, at least to me. And you can think of everything and nothing—”

“And play with dolls and guess riddles and eat chocolates,” I interrupted with a giggle. 

“Exactly. And you’ll always be listening for the Angel of Music in your dreams.”

We sat and talked for a long time that night, forgetting that such a thing as bedtime even existed, until our candle burned out and we grew sleepy. Father found us peacefully asleep together in our nest of blankets the next morning. And Raoul called me Little Lotte ever since, and so did Father. 

Once Father died, and promised to send me the Angel of Music, I really did begin to think of myself as Lotte a bit, although Raoul and I had long since gone our separate ways, and there was no one who called me by that name any more. It was a thought which sustained me in the years I danced at the Opera Populaire, the hope that I would indeed receive my Angel, and he would guide my story to a happy end. I truly believed my fantasies; I see now that I was a naive fool to do so. For now there is no angel, and I have lost the careless innocence which made me Little Lotte. Now, instead of an angel and his pupil, all that remains to my pitiful story is my own bitter disillusionment, Raoul’s tenderness and care, which is all that sustains me, and the memory of Erik’s broken cries echoing in my ears as Raoul and I fled from his lair. 

Even now I have no clear memory of how Raoul and I made our way back to the land of the living. I remember blindly stumbling after him, encumbered by the wedding dress which Erik had forced me to don, the taste of life and death and tears and love intermingled on my lips still. I could not quite comprehend why he had set us free. I knew that I had taken his hideous face in my hands and pressed my lips to his, and in that kiss we both knew that I had willingly given myself to him, heart, body, and soul, if he wished it. I thought he would claim what I gave him jealously, and that my life was forever his to do with as he pleased, and that I would never see Raoul or the light of day again. But he didn’t. Instead, he let both Raoul and I go, pointing out a secret passageway by which we could flee and ordering us to hurry before the distant mob reached his lair. Now, however, I am not so certain that he really let all of me go. It seems as though part of me must always be trapped in that haunting lair, trapped in the place where I last heard his voice. 

I don’t know how far along the passageway it was before I tripped and fell; I only knew that by the time we were out of the Populaire and onto the streets of Paris Raoul had taken me into his arms and was carrying me, and I clung to him like a drowning child, terrified of letting go and being left to fend for myself again amid the storm of feelings which surged through me. Eventually he set me on my own two feet again, and helped me to stand, putting a gentle arm around my shoulders. 

“Christine,” he said, “I’m going to take you home with me. I don’t want you to be by yourself right now. Is that all right?”

I nodded numbly. I would have agreed to anything just then, so long as it meant that I did not have to try and control myself, or pretend to have strength in the place of my brokenness, any more. Raoul began to try and hail a passing cab, and I miserably began to finger the bedraggled lace trim of my dress. The dress that Erik had made for me, deep in the shadows of his lair. Erik. A cab finally stopped, and Raoul turned to help me climb inside, but I no longer saw the streets of Paris before me. Instead, it seemed as though I were gazing down at Erik’s hunched form, shaking with sobs as he clung to the veil that I had thrust from me, my ring in his hand and the sound of the mob growing ever closer. He had done nothing to try and stop me as I had left for a second time. He had hardly seemed capable of anything any more, even an attempt to preserve his own life. Perhaps he was dead already. Perhaps they had killed him. 

“Christine?” Raoul asked gently. His voice snapped me back to the empty cab before us. “Christine, are you coming?”

“I have to go back,” I said feverishly, unable to meet his eyes. “Erik— the mob— I—”

Raoul took me by the shoulders, gently but firmly, making me look up at him. “Christine, are you mad? He tried to kill us both! Come on; I’m taking you home now.”

“What if they kill him, Raoul? What if he dies alone, away from anyone who has ever shown him kindness? Please— I can’t leave him like that— please let me go—”

“The opera’s on fire, Christine; I can’t let you go back there to try and rescue some madman. And you’d never get in anyway. Look.”

He gestured back up the street, and I looked. The Opera Populaire was indeed on fire; it must have been caused by the chandelier’s fall. The firemen and the police had surrounded it; they were blocking people from the entrances and doing their best to fight the fire as a crowd gathered, half made up of the Don Juan Triumphant audience and half made up of excited passersby. The sight of the flames sent a terrible shock of panic through me, and, not fully aware of what I was doing, I tore away from Raoul, running for the entrance as though my life depended on it. If only I could get to my dressing room… I knew that the underground passageways would not be set on fire; they were made of stone, and Erik’s lake would protect his lair from the flame… but it would also trap the mob there with him… 

I had nearly made it to the front steps when one of the policemen seized my arm, stopping me. “What do you think you’re doing, mademoiselle? You’ll likely be killed if you go in there!”

“Let me go!” I pleaded hysterically. “Erik— I can’t leave him—”

In an instant Raoul was at my side, holding me fast. “Monsieur, forgive me; she has quite taken leave of her senses. I will take her now.” Turning to me, “Christine, what are you thinking? Please… come with me… you need help—”

And he held me there as I screamed Erik’s name into the night, tears streaming down my face. He gently restrained me from rushing into the burning opera house, and we both watched as the firemen slowly began to conquer the devouring tongues of flame. I screamed for Erik, the man who had betrayed me, until my throat burned and I could no longer force a sound from my lips; then I collapsed into Raoul’s embrace, sobbing and broken. He lifted me in his arms again, murmuring words of comfort that I scarcely heard, and bringing me back to where our cab was still waiting, carried me inside and bid the driver take us to his mansion. We clung to each other desperately during that awful cab ride, I sobbing and he trying to soothe me, although I knew he loathed Erik with every fiber of his being. 

“It’ll be alright,” he reassured me. “Erik is clever; more likely than not he built a hundred escape routes. Believe me, Christine; he is safe and so are you.”

I did not have the strength to answer him, and so he simply held me in his arms until the cab stopped in front of his family’s mansion. Gently wiping away the tears on my cheeks, he looked down into my face. 

“Christine? Are you strong enough to walk inside, or would you like me to carry you?”

“I— I can walk,” I managed to say. “Just— don’t let go of me, Raoul, please—”

“I won’t,” he promised. And he didn’t, not for a single moment, as he led me inside. We had hardly passed through the door when a small, finely dressed elderly lady rushed up to us, tears in her eyes, and threw her arms around him.

“Oh, Raoul— we heard there was a fire at the Opera Populaire during the performance— thank God you’re safe—”

She broke off as she noticed me. It was at that moment that I realized what a sight I must have looked to her in my bedraggled, dirty wedding gown, my eyes red and bloodshot with crying and my curls tangled and knotted about my face. Raoul had introduced us at the New Year’s masquerade ball, but I doubted that I was any longer recognizable. 

“Mother, surely you will remember Christine Daaé,” Raoul interjected hastily. “She was onstage when the fire caught, and has been through a terrible ordeal to-night. Forgive me for bringing her here without first asking your leave or Father’s; she is in great need of care and attention and I was the only one present to offer it in adequate measure. She will be staying here for the next few days at least, if it does not disturb you.”

Madame de Chagny was silent for a moment, apparently speechless with the absurdity of Raoul’s explanation, and I could not blame her. I was only a wreck of a chorus girl who had appeared on her doorstep, clutching her son’s arm; of course she had every right to send me away… but that thought was too awful; I could not bear to be separated from Raoul now… 

“Of course,” Madame de Chagny said at last, seeming to regain her composure. “Any decisions as to what will be done will be made after she is completely well.” Then, beckoning to a servant who stood nearby, “Charlotte, please escort Miss Daaé to the guest suite and provide her with a change of clothes and a hot bath. Your duty over the next few days will be to attend to her in whatever way she sees fit.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Raoul told her, “but I will escort Christine to her room. She has endured much tonight, and I do not think that she should be left alone just yet. I will call Charlotte when Christine is ready to bathe, but until then you need not worry about either of us.”

“Very well.” Madame de Chagny nodded her head in acquiescence. Turning to me, she added gently, “I am very sorry for your misfortune, my dear. Know that you are welcome to stay under my roof for as long as you need to.”

“Thank you,” I whispered hoarsely; then I allowed Raoul to lead me up the grand staircase, hardly caring where I was going or what happened next. I only knew that Raoul was beside me; he would keep me safe, and Erik must have survived— after all, Raoul had promised me that he would, and I did not have the strength to contemplate the alternative.


	2. Chapter 2

The first night I spent at the de Chagny mansion, my dreams were peaceful; in fact,when I awoke, I did not recall having any, and, looking back, I thank God for His mercy in granting me such good fortune. I do not think I could have borne the torment of a nightmare yet, or worse, a dream of Erik, or even a pleasant dream, which might have made my life even more wretched in comparison. 

When I awoke, I was lying in the middle of the magnificent four-poster bed of the de Chagny guest suite, wrapped in the silken coverlet. I did not remember how I had gotten there. I know that the night before, I had begged Raoul to stay with me, and he had sat with me on the upholstered couch by the window and held me tightly in his embrace, doing his best to provide some semblance of comfort. I must have fallen asleep in his arms, and he must have laid me in the bed and covered me with the silken comforter. As I slowly sat up, white satin and lace rustled around me, and I glanced down. Dirty and torn as it was, I was still wearing the wedding dress. I had refused to take it off the night before; I had not wanted to leave Raoul’s side even for a moment to do so, and for some reason I could not bear to think of removing Erik’s dress so soon. Raoul had done his best to convince me, but I had protested, and eventually he had given in. I had meant to take it off before going to bed, if only to avoid ruining the de Chagnys’ sheets, but I must have succumbed to my exhaustion first. 

Dizziness assailed me as I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, and I was obliged to steady myself against one of the bedposts before I was able to walk. Every inch of my body ached from the night before; it was painful to move. My throat hurt so badly from crying that I did not dare attempt to speak, lest no sound come out. Erik would have been furious with me for allowing his precious instrument to be damaged so. But Erik was not here… and last night he had shown little more care for my instrument than I had. Silent tears filled my eyes as I reached up and felt the bruises that his fingers had left on my throat. He had not intended to hurt me; even now I am certain of it, but I can never forget that awful moment when his long cold fingers clasped themselves around my neck, threatening to deprive me of air until I suffocated. Moments later, he had released me, horror written across his face as he realized what his hands had done, but it was too late. My Angel had fallen. 

I resolutely forced myself to push this thought aside. What Erik had done mattered to me no longer; I was safe with Raoul now and it would not do to let the de Chagnys see me in this state. With trembling fingers I closed the curtains and undid the buttons of my wedding gown. It fell to the ground around me in a silken heap, and I hastily stepped away from it without looking at it again. Erik had been right about one thing at least: I could not look back now. 

Opening the finely carved wardrobe, I found a dressing gown and quickly donned it. There was a small bell on the table beside my bed; I rang it, and, moments later, Charlotte appeared. 

“Yes, mademoiselle?” 

“I— I would like to take a bath now, if it does not trouble you very much,” I stammered. My voice was weak, and the words were painful to form. But Charlotte simply smiled and nodded. 

“It does not trouble me in the least, mademoiselle. Shall I bring you a towel and fresh clothes as well?” 

“Yes, please. And— Charlotte?” 

She paused, already halfway out the door. “Yes, mademoiselle?” 

“You may call me Christine, if you would like. I must admit I am not accustomed to being called mademoiselle by the one who is caring for me.” 

She smiled again; it was a genuine smile this time, although I could not imagine what I had done to cause it. “Of course— Christine.” 

Nearly an hour later, I emerged from the bath that Charlotte had prepared for me, refreshed and calm, almost as though the water had washed the raw and immediate pain of my memories away, leaving me mercifully numb. Taking a deep breath, I dressed in the clothes that Charlotte had left. It was a simple, olive green gown, trimmed with brown ribbon and white lace, and I could not help but smile a little as I put it on. It was beautiful, and I could not help but feel beautiful wearing it. 

I had to take another deep breath to steady myself as I faced the full-length mirror in my room so that I could pin my curls back from my face. It was only a mirror; there was no need for my heartbeat to quicken, no need to listen for a voice that was not there. I quickly turned away from my reflection before I could begin to cry. All of the memories hurt too badly; I could not bear it… I must go and find Raoul and forget the pain that threatened to engulf me. Without glancing back at the wedding gown which still lay on the floor, I left the room. 

Another wave of dizziness assailed me as I reached the stairs, and I paused, leaning against the banister. Voices floated up from downstairs, and I recognized one as belonging to Raoul and the other as belonging to his older brother, Philippe. Recovering from my dizziness, I would have continued down the stairs, but the sound of my name stopped me. 

“You have no say in whether or not Christine is welcome here, Philippe!” Raoul snapped. “She has been through a terrible experience— Mother is more than willing that she should stay— if you say so much as a word to Father to convince him otherwise, I swear I’ll—”

“I have nothing to say to Father concerning the matter,” Philippe retorted hotly. “He needs none of my urging to see that it is highly improper for a family of our rank to take in a chorus girl who has slept with a wanted criminal and murderer!” 

Shame burned my cheeks, although I knew that his accusations were false. Was this really how I appeared to the de Chagnys? As a shameless chorus girl who meant to win their son by taking advantage of his kindness and generosity? I would have turned and fled back to my room then in anger and disgrace had Raoul not responded. 

“Christine has done no such thing, nor would she ever sink to such abomination. She is an angel, Philippe, and you dare to stand here and speak of her as though she were a demon sent from hell itself to tempt me. Do you not think that she has not faced such rumors before at the opera house? They are all false; she has sworn it to me herself, and I will not have you profane her name with your lies.”

“You admit yourself that she was ensnared by the opera ghost last night,” Philippe responded evenly, cooly, as though fully confident in his own logic. “Mere hours later, she turned up on our doorstep wearing a wedding gown. I was in the crowd outside the Opera Populaire, Raoul; I heard her screaming for him. Do you really mean to tell me that she did not intend to return to him?”

“She did not,” Raoul said angrily. “The wedding dress was a costume; I told you that already.”  
“I watched the same Don Juan that you did! There was no wedding gown, nor was there a wedding in the opera which might have provided the need for such attire!”

“Her clothes caught on fire; it was the first thing I could find to replace them!” Raoul lied. “The fact that it was a wedding gown from an old production is entirely irrelevant to your suspicions. Now, do you have anything left to say, or will you stop insulting my betrothed?”

“Betrothed or not, Raoul, she has given herself, body and soul, to another man, and that man is none other than the infamous and wanted Phantom of the Opera,” Philippe said icily. “Father would disown you if you wed a ballet rat who loved another, and loves you only for your money and the de Chagny name. I say this only for your own good, Raoul; it is kinder to you and her both if you end the engagement now, and I will do what I must to see that it happens.”

“You will do no such thing,” Raoul replied, his voice trembling with the weight of his fury. “Nobody who has met and come to know Christine could ever accuse her of the things that you have, and it is on that ground and that ground alone that I will forgive you for what you have said. She is everything that is good and pure and beautiful; she is kindness and compassion incarnate, despite the hardships she has faced; the woman you think you must despise, Philippe, is the most angelic creature in the world, and I am not worthy to be her betrothed and attempt to lay happiness at her feet.”

“If you are certain, then,” Philippe said coldly. “But I will not bless your union until I see proof of your words myself.”

“You’ll have plenty of reason to bless it soon, then,” Raoul retorted hotly, but Philippe had already left; I heard the door close behind him, and, carefully, I descended a few steps more, still shaking from the cruelty of what I had just heard. 

Raoul was in the living room, pacing back and forth with his hands deep in his pockets, apparently fuming over what Philippe had said. His hair was tousled, as it usually got when he was agitated, and I had a momentary urge to go and smooth the unruly locks that stuck out in every direction. I stood there for a moment watching him, attempting to compose myself enough to go down to him; then, seeming to sense my presence, he looked up and saw me. 

Instantly the creases in his forehead relaxed, and his furrowed brows smoothed themselves, and he came to greet me at the bottom of the stairs, his hand extended. 

“You look lovely this morning, Christine. Did you sleep well?”

I felt my lips form a smile; it was a strange and unusual feeling, almost as though I had somehow forgotten how to do it. 

“I did, thank you. And Charlotte has been very kind to me this morning.”

He seemed to suddenly realize that I was no longer wearing the wedding dress; I saw the unspoken question in his eyes, but to spare me the memory he said nothing. Instead he asked, “And is your room to your liking?” 

“It is one of the finest bedchambers that I have ever slept in.”

“Good.” He was still quite clearly agitated over his encounter with his brother, but did not say a word concerning it to me. I began to wonder if he intended to. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked presently. “There is breakfast in the dining room, if you would like it.”

But to my surprise, my appetite had completely vanished, and I said as much to him. He nodded, but seemed to have nothing else to say. At length I decided that I could not bear this any longer. What I had heard from his brother troubled me, and clearly worried him as well; he seemed loth to upset me, but the conversation was inevitable and due to my state of strange emotional numbness I found I did not care whether we discussed it now or later. I looked up into his warm blue eyes. 

“Raoul— what’s wrong?”

He sighed. “It’s nothing of importance, Christine. My brother has been overly inquisitive about the events of last night, but he will soon see reason. Don’t worry yourself about it.”

“I overheard your conversation,” I told him softly. “I didn’t mean to— but I was coming down the stairs—”

“And he certainly made no attempt to conceal his opinion.” Raoul’s expression darkened into a scowl. “It’s ridiculous; he really ought to have more sense…” He relapsed into angry silence. 

“Why did you lie to him about the wedding dress?” I asked. “We both know it was no costume.”

“I thought you should be the one to decide what to reveal of what happened down… down there,” Raoul replied. “It affected you far more greatly than it did me; it is your right to be the first to tell of it if you wish to. And Philippe would not have taken kindly to the information anyway, which is why I withheld it from him.”

I nodded in silent understanding, but Erik’s voice echoed in my ears, the image of him holding out the extravagant gown flashing before my eyes.  
“It’s yours, Christine,” he had told me wildly, a desperate, maniacal, almost bestial glint in his painfilled, golden eyes. “It always was, but you never wanted it; no, you would have run away and wed that pathetic little vicomte without a second thought, wouldn’t you have? So it’s a wedding you want? Well, there shall be a wedding, Christine, and you, my dear, shall be the tremulous, exquisite bride— isn’t that what you want? No, don’t shudder and cry so, my dear; it’s very unbecoming of you, and a bride really shouldn’t be unbecoming. The wedding’s quite inevitable, you see, and your tears will spoil the gown. It’s quite a lovely one; it would be a shame to spoil it. Here— put it on— put it on!”

And he had thrust the satin and lace mass at me as I had stood there, trembling from head to toe, tears wet on my cheeks. “Please, Erik,” I had begged him, struggling to keep my voice from shaking as badly as I was. “Not like this… you were never like this… please…”

“Enough!” he had thundered, seizing me suddenly by the shoulders, and I had gone limp in his arms, sobbing. “I will hear no more of these pleas, Christine! Do you know what it felt like to hear you pledge your love to the de Chagny boy up there on that rooftop— yes, I heard that, too! I know all of your secrets, all of the lies you let me believe— did you really think that your Angel would not always be by your side, watching over every word you said? And even now you have the audacity to think that I am the one who is not what you thought I was?” He had released me, and I had crumpled to the ground, my legs unable to bear me up any longer. “I will go and prepare our wedding celebration, Christine, and you will be wearing the dress by the time I return, or else I will force you to put it on myself. Do not doubt my word.” Then he had turned and left, locking me in that awful red velvet bedroom. I had done as he commanded and donned the gown; I had had no choice. Yes, it was best that Philippe de Chagny did not know the details of exactly how I had come to be wearing the wedding dress. 

“You should really eat something,” Raoul said at last, drawing me back to the present with the warmth of his voice. “Or at least have some tea, Christine; it will do you good.” 

I smiled weakly. He was right, of course; my throat was tight and swollen and still ached terribly. “If you insist so thoroughly, I have little grounds on which to refuse.” And I allowed him to lead me into the kitchen. 

He insisted on making the tea himself, as the servants were very busy and always made it either too strong or too weak, he said, and so I did my best to conceal my amusement as he attempted to make the tea, a process which he clearly knew very little about. 

“You don’t usually put the sugar in before the tea, do you?” he inquired anxiously. I could not help but laugh at the serious tone in which he said it, and he pretended to be hurt by it. 

“I mean it, Christine; you must give me some answer besides laughter, or you shall have no tea, and I no dignity. And do you need both honey and sugar, or would honey be sufficient? I know it’s very soothing all by itself.”

“Let me help you, Raoul.”

“Don’t even think of it,” he ordered playfully. “You’ve got to rest, and I’m very capable of making the tea if you'll only tell me what to do before I mess it up. Now, how hot would you like your tea?”

Fortunately at that moment, Madame de Chagny entered the kitchen, and spotted us at once. “Why, good morning, Miss Daaé; I must admit I did not expect to see you awake and downstairs yet. I trust you slept well?”

“Very well indeed, thank you. And thank you very much for all the kindness and hospitality you have shown me.”

“It’s nothing, dear; you’ve had misfortunes and we’ve been able to offer you some sort of relief. Raoul— Raoul, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” 

“I’m looking for the tea canister,” Raoul responded, his head in the spice cabinet as he rummaged frantically through it. “Do you like cream with your tea, Christine?”

“Yes, if you please,” I replied. To Madame de Chagny, who looked utterly bewildered, I added in an undertone, “Raoul has insisted on preparing the tea this morning. I offered him my help, and he declined.”

“As I very well think I should have,” Raoul called from the spice cabinet. “I won’t have you making your own tea under my roof; that’s ridiculous.”

“I see,” Madame de Chagny told me, laughter sparkling in her eyes. Then, taking pity on her son, she went to fetch the tea canister from the dining room, and returned carrying that and a plate of blueberry scones. “Would you accept my help, Raoul, if I told you I’ve found the teabags?”

“Where were they?” And Raoul emerged from the cabinet in bewilderment. His mother and I both smiled as we saw his dismay upon seeing the tea canister in her hands. 

“Would you like to sit down and break your fast with Christine, Raoul?” Madame de Chagny asked him. “Or would you rather search the pantry for the honey?” 

“Oh, all right.” And Raoul sat down beside me at the table as his mother made us both tea. 

Breakfast was a pleasant ordeal, and I was glad that I had agreed to it. My lack of appetite made it difficult to eat much, and even the scones seemed hard and rough to my raw, aching throat, delicious though they were, but Madame de Chagny smiled upon me, and I was glad, relieved that at least one member of Raoul’s family was not so very opposed to my presence in their house. So I simply sipped my tea, relaxing as the hot, sweet liquid entered my mouth, and listened to Raoul and his mother’s conversation. It seemed that his oldest sister, Louisa, was coming to visit them from London soon, and they had only just received the news that morning. 

“I’m afraid I have business I must attend to today,” Raoul said at last, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Christine, will you be alright here without me?”

I nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“You may do what you like as far as I’m concerned, dear,” Madame de Chagny told me warmly. “I’m afraid I haven’t much that will entertain you, but you’re welcome to amuse yourself however you please.”

“Here, I’ll show you the library before I leave,” Raoul offered, and I gave a small gasp of excitement before I could help myself. 

“You’ve got a library?”

“And a rather extensive one at that,” Madame de Chagny interjected. “I’ve got to leave you to your own devices for a while, dear; I’ve got lots to get done today. Raoul, show her the library, and if you pass the market on the way home do try and see if you can find some brussels sprouts.” With that, Madame de Chagny left, and Raoul looked down at me. 

“Shall I show you the library?”

And so it was that I spent the day perusing the de Chagnys’ extensive collection of leatherbound volumes, finding the solace in imaginary worlds that I could not find in my own. Even as a child, I had delighted in all forms of storytelling, and books especially, but books had been a luxury that Father could ill afford, and so, although he had ensured that I could both read and write from a very young age, my knowledge of literature was negligible, to say the least. At the Opera Populaire, my enjoyment of reading had fared little better. Madame Giry had done her best to provide the ballet girls with some novels and whatnot when she could, so that we might be disciplined in our minds as well as our dance, but I had quickly exhausted her small collection. And I had had little leisure for such pursuits anyway; many nights after rehearsal we had all been too exhausted to do more than collapse into bed, let alone devote several hours to reading. 

And so it was that I was quite content to be left to my own devices for a while. I did not wish to speak to anyone; the poor condition of my voice made it painful and I did not want to be questioned just yet, although I assumed it would be inevitable once I had recovered a little more. Neither did I wish to let my mind wander freely, however, as I did not trust myself not to dwell on bitter memories, and so there was hardly a more fitting occupation for me than reading. 

The sun had just begun its glorious descent into flame when someone’s hand reached out from behind me and covered the pages of my book. “Do you intend to come to supper, Little Lotte, or shall you remain fixated upon your novel until you disappear into its world entirely?”

It was Raoul’s voice, and I turned to see him standing behind me, a warm smile on his face despite an uncharacteristic weariness in the way he stood. I tried to smile back, but the name of Little Lotte had had a curious effect on me, and I found that my lips would not form themselves into a smile. 

“Is your entire family to eat with us, Raoul?” His mother had been kind enough, but I could not forget Philippe’s harsh words, and the idea of facing an entire roomful of de Chagnys was plenty to inspire my apprehension. He nodded, and sensing my unease, asked gently:

“Are you afraid of how they might treat you, Christine?”

“Perhaps I am— just a very little,” I confessed, blushing. “I cannot deny that I have hardly done anything to give them a favorable impression of me.”

“Anyone with the sense of a squirrel would find you delightful no matter what you had done to make an unfavorable impression,” Raoul reassured me, and I knew he was thinking of his brother. “But you needn’t make an appearance at supper if you don’t want to. If you like, I can tell them that you aren’t feeling well and must regretfully decline eating with the family, and Charlotte can bring your supper up to your room.”

I nodded gratefully, relieved at the prospect of not having to face Raoul’s family for a little longer. “Please, Raoul… if you don’t mind…”

“I don’t mind a bit,” he promised me, and, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead, he took me by the hand and escorted me back to my room. I cannot deny that when his lips brushed my skin I closed my eyes and very nearly drew back; at another time I would have delighted in the tenderness of his gesture, but now I felt almost as though I were too broken to let Raoul kiss me. It seemed sacrilegious, almost wrong, somehow. But the moment quickly passed; Raoul clearly thought nothing of it, and so I determined to put it out of my mind. A few minutes later, he had left me alone in my room, and I curled myself up on the windowseat, hugging my knees to my chest like a small child and gazing out at the sunset. 

I was interrupted by Charlotte’s soft knock at the door, and she entered, bearing a tray of steaming soup with several slices of golden bread on the side. “Christine? Monsieur de Chagny requested that I bring this up to you.”

I forced myself to smile as I accepted the food, not wanting to appear ungrateful for the care I had been shown. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Charlotte inquired gently. “Perhaps some tea, or the evening paper?” 

“Is there any news of the opera house?” I asked before I could stop myself. Instantly I regretted my words; of course I was desperate to learn anything I could about the place that had once been my home, but I was not willing to risk the heartache that such news might bring just yet. But Charlotte was already holding out a folded newspaper to me. 

“There is, if you would like to read it.”

I accepted the paper with trembling fingers, but did not read it just yet. That was something I could not do in the presence of others. “Thank you, Charlotte. I would like to be alone now, if you please.”

“Of course.” She withdrew, and I set the paper aside, focusing my attention on the food she had brought me instead. I did not want to eat; food was hardly the sustenance that I craved, but I knew that Raoul would be concerned if he learned that I had left my supper untouched, and so I mechanically swallowed the soup, spoonful by spoonful, until the bowl was empty. Despite my best efforts, however, I could not bring myself to eat more than a few mouthfuls of the bread, and, after several minutes of trying, gave up and began to examine the headlines of the evening paper. 

“Murderer or Myth? Culprit of Fire at Opera Populaire Still Unconfirmed,” stated a large black headline on the first page. My pulse quickened against my will as I saw the image of the opera house itself, shrouded in flames and smoke, boldly emblazoned beneath the title. My fingers began to tremble again, and I fought desperately to regain control of myself. It was only words on a page; surely printed letters could not hurt me… after all, I had faced far worse within the last twenty-four hours… before I could fling the paper from my sight, I dropped my eyes to the page and began to read. If there was indeed news of the opera house, I owed it to myself to know it. 

“Although it is certain that the fire at the well-known Opera Populaire last night was deliberately set, the police are still at a loss for the guilty party,” the article read. “Many of the workers at the opera house claim that it was deliberate arson on the part of the opera ghost, but the existence of such a ghost has yet to be proven. For several years, there have been rumors of a man living in the cellars of the opera who might fulfill the role of the opera ghost, but he has never been spotted by a trustworthy witness. In fact, these rumors were dismissed until the sudden disappearance of Swedish soprano Christine Daaé on the night of her triumphant principal debut as Elissa in the opera’s performance of Hannibal, a curiosity repeated during the premiere of the production ‘Don Juan Triumphant’, and only preceding the disastrous fall of the opera’s chandelier by mere seconds, suggesting a correlation between the three events. 

“Miss Daaé has been revealed to now be safe and in the care of the Vicomte de Chagny, the patron of the opera, but the Vicomte has refused to allow the police to question her concerning the matter, claiming that she has been terribly affected by the fire and will need time to recover before making a public statement. In the meantime, longstanding prima donna Carlotta Giudicelli, who lost her fianceé Ubaldo Piangi in the fire, claims that Miss Daaé certainly has some role in this disastrous arson attempt, as her actions of late have indicated that she is not altogether innocent in the affairs of the opera ghost, whom Signora Giudicelli believes to have started the fire.” 

I dropped the paper, hot tears of shame and rage rising to my eyes. Of course Carlotta had accused me; she had never forgiven me for being forced into her spotlight. And of course the police wanted a public statement from me, and of course Raoul had forbidden it. By the time the excitement of the fire had died down, I would no longer be able to hold my head up in public for the hundreds of stares and whispers and cruel, cutting rumors directed at me. It had been kind of Raoul to deny the police the opportunity of interrogating me, but I wondered if it was really for the best, since I was now unable to speak in my own defense against the cruel assumptions of the public. But even if I were given a chance to speak, what could I say without betraying Erik?

Lost in my thoughts, I heard a soft knock, and the door opened behind me, and I heard Raoul’s voice. “Christine? I thought you might like some dessert.”

I quickly wiped my tears away and turned around. Raoul was standing there, a small porcelain dish of what appeared to be ice cream in his hand. “I didn’t think you’d ever tried any,” he explained, “and so I asked the servants to make some. Here, try it; it’s very good.” 

I could not help smiling a little at his thoughtfulness, but I shook my head nonetheless. “Thank you, Raoul, really, but I can’t eat it. I haven’t the appetite for a bite more.”

“You will as soon as you taste it,” he insisted. “Just one spoonful, Christine; I promise you won’t regret it.” 

“All right, then.” And he sat down beside me and handed me the bowl and a small silver spoon. He was right; it was delicious. I had never tasted anything so cold and sweet and creamy all at once; it melted away on my tongue within moments, and without thinking I took another bite. Raoul smiled triumphantly. 

“I told you you’d like it,” he said. Then, his tone growing more serious, “Has your day been pleasant so far? I didn’t want to leave you all alone, but I really did have things to attend to—”

“At the opera house?” I asked quietly. He looked surprised, and I gestured to the newspaper that lay on the floor. “Thank you for insisting that I needed time to recover.”

“It’s none of their business, really,” he said, going furiously red in the face. “I told them you had nothing to do with it, and that I would cover the cost of repairs as much as I could, so they needn’t worry. I swear if one more word concerning the matter falls from Carlotta’s pompous, painted lips…”

“Raoul— it’s really very kind of you— but I had everything to do with it; you know that—”  
“Perhaps you did, but it wasn’t your fault, and I won’t have you treated as though it was,” Raoul said stubbornly. “And every journalist in Paris had better keep their grubby nose out of it as far as I’m concerned.”

I took another bite of ice cream to avoid meeting his gaze. “When… when you went to the opera house today... there wasn’t— there wasn’t any news of Erik, was there?” As soon as I said it, I had to look away and blink very rapidly to keep the tears from spilling down my cheeks… it was ridiculous that I should cry like this over Erik after all that he had done… I set the ice cream down to avoid spilling it, and Raoul put a gentle arm around my shoulders to steady me. 

“The police are loath to believe in his existence at all until they have further proof,” he told me. “It is my hope that they never find such proof, and that he remains hidden until the end of his days.”  
“He’d be killed if he were found, wouldn’t he?” I murmured tremulously. Raoul said nothing, only pulled me close to him, and I knew that his silence was an affirmative. 

“It’s not fair,” I whispered. “Perhaps he doesn’t deserve his freedom after what he’s done, but he doesn't deserve to die, either… not like that… oh, Raoul, if they found him somehow I don’t think I could bear it…” And I closed my eyes as the burning tears slid down my cheeks, and Raoul embraced me even more tightly. 

“They haven’t found him yet, Christine, and I doubt they ever will. Most likely none of us will ever see him again.” 

I did not touch the rest of the ice cream that evening, and it slowly melted as, for the second night in a row, I fell asleep in Raoul’s arms with tears staining my cheeks. When I awoke the next morning I found that he had once more tucked me into the four-poster bed as I slept, and my dishes and the newspaper were gone, as though our conversation had never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let you know what you think; I’ve never written fanfiction before and any feedback would be much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days passed quietly. Raoul spent every minute that he could by my side, and I was grateful for it. I did not wish for the company of anyone who might try and make me talk, yet neither did I wish to be alone, and so Raoul’s gentle companionship was all that I needed. He was content both to sit in silence and hold conversation, sometimes smiling and sometimes serious, depending on my mood. Words cannot express how much his presence meant to me in those days following the disaster at the Opera Populaire. 

My appetite did not return, although Raoul did his best to tempt me with every manner of delicacy that the servants could prepare. I was not, and never have been, overly particular about my food, but I felt as though I could never be hungry again: the void inside of me refused to be filled by food, and its constant, aching presence numbed any desire I had to consume more than a few bites at a time. Raoul grew rather concerned over this, and threatened to take me to see a physician if I did not begin to eat more, but I could not help myself. Meals, it seemed, had lost their flavor; every mouthful stuck in my throat and I often pushed my plate away having barely touched its contents. 

I attended meals with the rest of the de Chagny family now, as much as I would have liked to avoid it. Phillipe de Chagny did not speak to me once during mealtimes, and, although Raoul’s father treated me with civility, he was cold and austere, and rarely addressed me if not to ensure that I was well fed. The younger of Raoul’s sisters, Manon, did not often speak either, although I caught her glancing at me across the table with curiosity several times. She did not seem very inclined to dislike me, but appeared somewhat cowed by her father and brother’s obvious disapproval, and so she made no gestures of friendship. 

Had it not been for the efforts of Raoul and Madame de Chagny, meals would have been a bleak affair. Raoul sat beside me, and often intertwined his fingers with mine beneath the table, as though to provide some kind of physical support as he bravely attempted to carry a polite conversation with anyone who was willing to join. Madame de Chagny constantly came to his aid in these endeavors, and I could not help but admire the apparent ease with which she played the role of both charming hostess and gracious housewife as I sat there, afraid to speak lest I incur the wrath of Philippe or Monsieur de Chagny.

When Raoul was not there, I spent most of my time in the library, and I did not regret it. Although the wealth of knowledge within the leatherbound volumes which once would have delighted me now afforded me more than mild pleasure, it was pleasure nonetheless, and I was grateful for it. 

On the third afternoon of my stay, to my surprise, Manon approached me as I sat alone reading. “Is your novel very interesting, Miss Daaé?” 

I looked up at her. She had shown no sign of wanting to form an acquaintance until now, and I must admit that I was hardly expecting it. “Oh, yes— very.”

“Well, I thought you might enjoy some fresh air and a walk, but if it is so very interesting I won’t be in the least offended if you decline.” She said this all rather quickly and carelessly, as though she were nervous to get it out at all, and I smiled, setting the book aside. 

“I would enjoy it very much, thank you. I have scarcely set foot outside during my stay here.”

Manon’s eyebrows drew together quizzically in a manner so reminiscent of Raoul that I had to hide another smile. “What on earth has my brother been doing, keeping you cooped up so?” she demanded indignantly. “Yes, it’s cold, but it’s delightfully crisp, and with a thick cloak you’ll hardly feel the chill at all. I thought he had more sense than that; you must be bored half to death in this old house. Come on; I’ll let you use a cloak and bonnet of mine if you like, and if we’re back before sundown nobody will realize that we’ve left at all.”

Confused, but not offended, by her sudden change in manner, I followed her to her room, and a few minutes later, arrayed warmly in her cloaks, scarves, gloves, and bonnets, we set out into the streets of Paris. She was right; although it was cold the crispness of the air was refreshing, and I inhaled deeply, all of the scents of the city tingling inside of my nose. A few streets away from the de Chagny house, Manon stopped and turned to me. 

“Would you care to take a stroll around the Tuileries? I must admit I didn’t have much of an idea of where to go when we set out, and that’s as good a place as any.”

I readily consented, and so we made our way to the Tuileries Garden. Manon made most of the conversation; she seemed quite at ease with me, and I was glad, for I certainly should have had no idea of what to say to her had our roles been reversed. Despite her friendly manner, I could not help but wonder what had caused such a change in her manner. Had she really been so afraid of her father and brother’s disapproval? Or had Monsieur de Chagny and his eldest son spoken so ill of me that she had been inclined to somehow believe them?

“Raoul has quite the obsession with you, you know,” she said presently, drawing me out of my thoughts. “I’ve never seen him so concerned for anyone as he has been for you these past few days. One would think you’d nearly died in that fire.”

“He has been very kind,” I said, purposefully ignoring the remark about the fire. “I am rather overwhelmed by the hospitality I have been shown under your roof.”

Manon’s cheeks went ever so slightly red; I supposed she was thinking that until now she had not contributed to this hospitality. We continued on for a moment more; then she stopped and turned to me very seriously. “I believe I owe you an apology, Miss Daaé.”

“And why is that?” I asked, coming to a halt as well. 

“I know I have not spoken a word to you until this afternoon. I must confess that it was quite on purpose; I thought rather ill of you when you first arrived.”

“Why?” I asked, unsure of whether or not to be offended by this and eventually deciding to listen to her explanation first. She fidgeted uncomfortably. 

“I have known of your relationship with Raoul since your Elissa debut,” she said. “I was in the audience with him that night, and you sang so splendidly that Philippe and I had no objection to the two of you attending supper together, and left the opera not long after the curtain closed. As you must know, Raoul came home alone, and rather early for one who was supposed to dine with his childhood sweetheart. Naturally I assumed that you had snubbed him cruelly.”

I felt myself blush at the memory. “I didn’t. I would have liked to go to supper very much, but I was forbidden by… by my music teacher. He has always been very careful of my evening habits, that I might not exhaust my voice.”

Manon nodded. “That is what Raoul told me when I questioned him, and I hold no bitterness towards you for the incident. If you must know, the grudge I have held against you for the past few days has been for the danger that my brother put himself in to drag you out of the burning opera house and what I at first perceived as a rather ungrateful reception of his sacrifice.”

“I did not realize that I appeared ungrateful. Should my feelings reflect your suspicions, I should deserve you scorn indeed, but I promise you that hardly anything is further from the truth. I am deeply indebted to your brother for all that he has done for me, and I must beg your forgiveness if I have not made my gratitude apparent.”

Manon smiled. “No, Miss Daaé; the apology is mine. I was far too hasty to judge you. Raoul spoke to me last night after dinner, and I… I did not realize that the opera house meant so much to you. If my home had caught fire and left me penniless, I would hardly be in a better state than you are now; in fact, I must admire your courage. Forgive me for having thought so poorly of you.” 

I forced myself to smile. “There is nothing to forgive, Miss de Chagny. I cannot blame you for what you thought; I know I have done very little to suggest otherwise. I am not in the least bitter towards you for it.”

She smiled, clearly relieved, and grasped my hands gratefully. “Thank you, Miss Daaé. And you must call me Manon, as my friends do.”

“In that case, you must call me Christine,” I replied. “It is rather strange to me that only Raoul addresses me so now, aside from Charlotte.”  
“Charlotte? The maid?” 

“Yes, I asked her to. I was uncomfortable being addressed as mademoiselle so often.”

Manon laughed, but it was a kind laugh. “I’ll have to convince her to call me Manon, then, especially when Louisa comes. It’s very confusing to have more than one ‘mademoiselle’ in the house.” 

“I’m sure it is.”

“Oh, very. Were all of the dancers addressed so at the opera house?”

“Hardly. Madame Giry generally referred to us by our given names, and perhaps by our full names if she was reprimanding us for missing a step.”

“And who is Madame Giry?”

“The ballet mistress.” And so our conversation continued pleasantly for a while. I found that I did not mind speaking of my memories of the opera house so long as those memories did not include Erik, and so I told Manon of my days in the corps de ballet in great detail, and she seemed greatly interested. At length, however, the sun began to set, and we were obliged to trace our steps back towards the de Chagny mansion, talking the whole way. 

As we drew closer, I saw two horses tethered in the courtyard, and, judging from the simple, sturdy trappings, they did not belong to the de Chagnys. A puzzled look crossed Manon’s face. 

“I didn’t think we were to entertain any guests tonight,” she said. “Did Raoul say anything to you about having company?”

I shook my head. “Not a word.”

“Well, then, let’s go around and get in by the kitchen. I’d rather not greet anyone just yet.”

I readily complied, a strange dread filling my heart. I knew Raoul would not have allowed guests to come just yet, and so it must be no acquaintance of the de Chagnys, but someone who had come to ask after me. I shuddered involuntarily as Manon and I slipped in the kitchen door. I was not ready to face anyone from the outside world, unless… I firmly shoved the thought aside before I could finish it. It was ridiculous to hope that Erik had somehow come; not only was it absurd to imagine him calling upon the de Chagnys like any other Parisian gentleman, but I did not want to see him— I must not want to see him, and it was wrong of me to even hope for such an occurrence, which would put him in the gravest of dangers. 

But of course it was not Erik. Beckoning to me, Manon slipped unseen through the living room and up the staircase, and I would have followed her, but I caught wind of the conversation in the parlor first. 

“I have already told you; Miss Daaé has gone out, and my son assures me that she is in no fit state to answer your questions even were she present,” said a man’s voice, which I presumed to be that of Raoul’s father. “I am afraid I can offer you little assistance, gentlemen, although I am deeply sympathetic to your case. Unless you would like to stay for dinner, I am afraid there is nothing I can do for you.”

“You say she has gone out?” asked another, rougher male voice, which I did not recognize. “Is there a time when we may expect her return?”

“To the best of my knowledge, there is not,” Monsieur de Chagny said, coldness creeping into the edges of his tone. “And, even if there were, it is hardly polite to approach a young girl like Miss Daaé without warning, particularly in a matter that is as delicate as this one. If it is a confession you want from her, I will trust in my son’s word and pledge my honor that she is innocent; if it is information you hope to gain, I will see what I can do to arrange you a meeting with her, but at the present there is really nothing that can be done. Good day, inspector.”

The inspector? A cold chill swept through me, and I was obliged to lean on the kitchen door frame to keep myself upright. The police wanted answers from me, answers that I could not give lest it cost Erik his life. And Raoul was unable to protect me any longer… I heard the door close behind the inspector, and, shaking, I tiptoed out into the living room, intending to flee to my room. I was halfway up the stairs when Monsieur de Chagny’s voice rang out, stopping me in my tracks. 

“Miss Daaé?” His words were clear, cold, and commanding, and I turned around, my hand still on the banister, resisting the urge to continue my flight up the stairs. 

“Yes, monsieur?” 

“Come into the parlor. I must speak to you.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked back into the parlor. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed, trembling from head to toe in awful anticipation as though I were a child in disgrace. 

As soon as I had entered the parlor, he closed the door firmly behind us, indicating the nearest chair. “Please be seated, mademoiselle,” he told me shortly. I sank into the velvet-covered chair with no small amount of apprehension. He turned away from me and began to pace back and forth before the fireplace. My eyes followed him, and at last he stopped his pacing, facing me with a serious countenance. 

“Allow me to be brief, Miss Daaé. I presume you overheard my conversation with the inspector, and deliberately chose not to reveal yourself.”

I nodded, swallowing hard in a vain attempt to rid myself of the strange tightness in my throat. “Yes, monsieur.”

“And therefore you do realize the difficulty that I am in?”

I nodded. “I do.”

“Good.” He paused, and began to pace again. “You see, Miss Daaé, I am left with very little choice in the matter. Neither of us can avoid the fact that the events of the Opera Populaire caused a terrible scandal, and I feel very strongly that the perpetrator of such a scandal must be brought to justice. I do not blame you in the least for what happened, but, given your unfortunate involvement, I cannot help but imagine that you have knowledge which may be of some assistance to the police. Is this true?” 

I found myself unable to meet his eyes any longer, and quickly glanced away, looking down at the rich embroidery of the rug. “It is.”

“And you do realize that the longer you are silent, the more poorly it reflects upon both you and my family?”

I nodded, wishing he would get to the point and be done with it. I was certain that I knew what he was going to say, if only he would say it… 

“I am deeply sorry for your losses in the fire,” he continued. “I know that you have endured much over the past few days, and I offer my sincerest condolences, but you must understand that I have very little choice in the matter. This is the second time I have been approached by the gendarmes; it is hardly a pleasant experience, the prolonging of which connects your name even more firmly with mine in scandal. I understand that you are engaged to my son; is that not correct?”

“It is.” 

“Very well. If such an arrangement is to continue, I must require that you answer the police’s questions of your own accord within twenty-four hours, so that you may clear your own name and play your part in bringing this accursed murderer to justice. If you refuse, I cannot in good conscience forbid them from questioning you again, and neither can I bless a union between you and my son. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly so, monsieur,” I heard myself say, my own voice echoing strangely in my ears, as though I were speaking from a distance. 

“And may I then assume that you will do as I ask?”

“I will,” I told him numbly. “Pardon me for the trouble I have caused you.”

“I hold no bitterness towards you for it, Miss Daaé,” he said. “I hope that this will put the matter to an end entirely, so that we may all move forward quickly and put the past behind us. In the meantime, shall you attend dinner? I believe it is nearly ready.”

I shook my head. “No; thank you, but I— I’m not hungry.”

“Very well. Thank you for your cooperation.” And he exited the room, leaving me alone. 

I did not cry. I could not; I knew that crying would be useless; tears would not fill the aching, terrifying void inside of me. I had agreed to betray Erik to the police, knowing that my compliance would, as Monsieur de Chagny put it, assist “in bringing this accursed murderer to justice”; that is, assist the police in their intention of finding and killing him. I could not bear the thought of fulfilling my promise, but I knew that I must; there was no other alternative. Monsieur de Chagny had made sure of that. 

But even were it not for Monsieur de Chagny, I knew that I could no longer refuse to go to the gendarmes and answer their questions to the best of my ability. They were insistent; I had heard the inspector myself; I knew that sooner or later I would be forced to undergo the investigation, and I would far rather have the ordeal over with, as painful as it might be. I had some vague idea that by telling what I knew I might relieve myself of the torment of my memories, and thereby bring the matter to a close; perhaps I might free myself from the chains of the past that trapped me, if nothing else. And so I silently resolved to face the police, although I did not want to; it was no longer Monsieur de Chagny’s choice for me to do so, but my own. I had lived according to the choices of others for too long; I could bring myself to do so no more. 

I could not tell Raoul. If he knew, he would be furious with his father, and I was afraid that I would not have the strength to resist his inevitable efforts to detain me. And, deep down, I was reluctant to admit to either him or myself how afraid I really was of being interrogated by the police. To think that I would be forced to relive that awful night in vivid memory was unendurable, and I could not bring myself to dwell on it in dreadful anticipation for a moment longer than I had to. No; I would not speak of it to Raoul, even if my silence meant that I would have to face the ordeal alone. 

But I should have known better than to imagine that Raoul would allow the incident to pass unnoticed. Hardly half an hour had passed before I heard the parlor doors open, and his gentle, firm footsteps entered the room.

“Christine…”

One look at his face told me that he already knew, and, at the tender concern in his expression, I felt hot tears burn behind my eyelids in spite of myself. The next thing I knew, he had wrapped me in his arms, clinging to me as though I were the last person in the world. 

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his hand gently stroking my curls. “I spoke to Father; it was a ridiculous and insensitive request on his part and I don’t think that he’ll insist on your going to the police anymore… you don’t have to, Christine; do you hear me?”

I pulled myself away from his embrace to look into his warm blue eyes, willing myself not to succumb to the temptation he presented me with. Yes, his words were comforting, but it was hardly the comfort that I needed. I had made my choice already; I did not want to go through with it but at least it would provide me the relief I craved, or at least I had convinced myself that it would; I could not turn back now. 

“It’s all right,” he repeated, faltering at what I assumed was the look on my face. “Christine… listen to me; you don’t have to go to the police if you don’t want to—”

“It’s hardly a matter of what I want, Raoul. Please— I don’t expect you to understand— but I’ve got to do as I said I would. It’s not going to get better with time, and I can’t pretend it didn’t happen, so I’d rather get it over with. Please don’t try and stop me; I’ve got to—”

“Why?” he asked, a strange, worried intensity in his tone. “Gossip will die down over time, and the police will give up soon enough. There’s no reason for you to put yourself through something like this.”

“We both know that’s not true,” I told him firmly. “The police will not give up before they have my full confession, and the rumors will only damage your family’s reputation more. I’m going to the police station tomorrow morning, and the entire matter will be over for the both of us by the afternoon.”

“It won’t be if they capture the Phantom because of something you say,” Raoul said stubbornly. His words found the chink in my armor; fear paled my cheek and I shuddered violently, but he continued. “And don’t force yourself to do it just to protect my family’s name; I don’t care if every gossip in Paris thinks ill of me.”

“Do you really want every paper in the city spreading rumors that you’re the vicomte engaged to the chorus girl who has slept with the infamous Phantom of the Opera?” I asked him deliberately. His face instantly reddened, but I did not stop. “They’ll say that, and worse, you know, if I remain silent. And then we’ll be forced to break off our engagement; it would be too shameful for your family, and the entirety of Paris will think that I was as involved with the crime as the Phantom. Don’t you see, Raoul? I’ve got no choice.”

“It won’t happen like that,” Raoul insisted angrily. “I won’t let it, and they wouldn’t dare!” 

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to the police station tomorrow morning whether you like it or not.”

Raoul let go of me suddenly, and we stood looking at each other for a long moment. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was angry with me for the firmness of my resolve, but I had no intention of changing my mind. At last his eyebrows drew together in determination, and he spoke again. 

“Fine. But I’m going with you; they’ll hardly treat you with civility if you’re alone.”

To my own surprise, I found myself shaking my head. “No; I want to go by myself.”

“By yourself?” Raoul grasped my hands in his. “Christine, don’t make it harder on yourself; I’m going with you and that’s final.”

I wanted to give in; every inch of me ached to accept his offer, but for some inexplicable reason I knew I could not, just as surely as I knew I had to go. “No, you’re not,” I told him with as much firmness as I could muster. “I am the one they wish to speak to, and I am the one who will go. I’m not going to change my mind, Raoul.”

“Christine…” His tone was so tender and gentle, so reassuring and pleading all at the same time, that I nearly relented in spite of myself. “Christine, let me come with you; I promise it’ll make you feel better…”

I felt tears fill my eyes, and I knew that he saw them. All I wanted to do was collapse into his embrace and let him protect me from the whole world, and we both knew it, but I could not— I must not, for my own sake as well as his. “I— I can’t,” I managed to protest one last time; then I pulled away from his and fled upstairs to my room.

He found me there several hours later, sitting on the windowseat with my knees hugged to my chest, my eyes unmistakably red and puffy. I had locked myself in and sobbed facedown on the bed for a long time, although I was not completely certain as to why. I did not regret my decision; I did not regret refusing his offer of assistance. So why should my pillow be wet with tears? Eventually I had recovered, and, unlocking the door, had wrapped a shawl from the wardrobe around my shoulders and taken up my position on the windowseat, which was where I was sitting when Raoul entered. 

He knocked softly on the door as it swung open. “Christine?”

I did not answer. I did not want to hear another offer of assistance that I could not accept, and was certain that this was what he had come to propose. A few seconds later, I heard him enter, closing the door gently behind him. 

“Christine, I— I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. I don’t want to force you into anything you don’t want to do— or out of it, if you’ve made up your mind. Please— I didn’t mean to hurt you in any way; I didn’t understand.”

Still I said nothing. I did not trust my voice. Raoul drew closer, and I focused my attention on the brilliant sunset that filled the vast expanse beyond the window, wishing I could somehow lose myself in it. I knew I ought to respond; I knew that it was cruel to leave him in silence, but, although my lips parted, no sound came out. 

“Christine, please; I’m sorry; I didn’t want to upset you—”

Tears filled my eyes, and I turned around. Raoul was kneeling beside the windowseat so that we were on the same level, one hand reaching for my shoulder and his expression full of regret and pain. I looked down into his pleading eyes for a long moment, willing myself to find the strength to speak. 

“I’m not angry with you, Raoul,” I whispered at last, and the tears in my eyes overflowed and made salty trails down my cheeks. “I forgive you.”

I may never know which of us did it. I don’t know if I leaned towards him or he rose to meet me or both of us did it at the same time, but the next thing I knew, our lips had met, and our arms were clasped around each other, and Raoul was suddenly on the windowseat beside me, his fingers entwined in my curls and mine running through the soft locks on the back of his head… then somehow I found that our lips had parted and I was held warmly, tightly, in his embrace, half laughing and half sobbing. 

“Raoul— I’m sorry— please forgive me—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he murmured, pressing another tender kiss to my forehead. “You will go to the police station tomorrow, all by yourself if you like, and I’ll be waiting by the door for you every moment you’re gone, so that I’ll be by your side as soon as you return.”

“Thank you,” I whispered as he pulled me even closer to him, so close that I could hear the steadying rhythm of his heartbeat, reassuring me, promising me safety and guidance. And, just for that brief, charmed moment, I was too content to even be afraid of the interrogation that I was to face the next morning. 

However, by the time the morning came, my courage had all but deserted me, and it was through sheer force of will rather than bravery that I prepared to leave the de Chagny’s house. Unlike the first morning I had spent there, I looked my reflection unflinchingly in the eyes as I pinned my curls back from my face, vainly attempting to steel myself for the task to come. I was painfully aware that I might hold Erik’s life in my hands; anything I said would be used to hasten his capture and death. The very thought was sickening, to the point where I was grateful that I had not eaten breakfast, as I was not certain I would be able to leave the de Chagny’s house without throwing up at the idea of my imminent treachery. 

My face was pale as I looked in the mirror one last time, but otherwise did not betray my nearly crippling apprehension and fear and scarcely sufficient resolve. I had dressed myself simply, in a dove-grey gown of Manon’s, one which I would have thought lovely had I not been so terrified. At least I looked the part of an innocent, honest young girl; an unwary observer would never guess that my name was connected with one of the largest scandals in Paris. 

Monsieur de Chagny was at the top of the stairs when I emerged from my room, and I dropped into a small curtsey. “Good morning, monsieur.”  
He nodded in acknowledgement. “Good morning, Miss Daaé.” Then, glancing at my outfit, “I thought Raoul had told you that I changed my mind. I do not insist upon your going to see the inspector just yet if you do not wish to.”

“I know— he told me last night.”

“And you are going anyway?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Something in his expression softened as he looked at me. “You will want to ask for Monsieur Favreaux,” he told me at last. “I know him very well; he is a fine gentleman and the head inspector, and he will likely be expecting you. He will treat you kindly.”

I nodded. “Thank you, monsieur.”

All of a sudden, he smiled down at me warmly, and I knew that I had earned his grudging approval, if not his respect. “You are welcome, Miss Daaé.” And he stepped aside to allow me to continue down the stairs. 

Raoul was waiting for me at the bottom with a cloak and bonnet and a warm embrace, all of which I accepted gratefully. “It’ll be over before you know it,” he promised me as I fastened the cloak around my shoulders and tied the bonnet strings with trembling, white-knuckled fingers. “And I’ll be waiting right here for you as soon as you get back.”

I nodded wordlessy, and, seeming to sense that it was hardly a time for speech, he hugged me again, fiercely, and did not let me go for several long seconds. I do not know whether I would have had the strength to leave the warmth of his arms had Monsieur de Chagny not come down the stairs, and Raoul, seeing his father, abruptly released me. 

“Go,” he said shortly, as though he did not trust himself to get the words out. “You’ll be back before you know it.”

And so I went. It was a simple enough matter to find my way to the police station— too simple, I realized as I stood before the towering, daunting stone building. It had taken me several minutes to find a side door; I did not have the nerve to go up the great stone steps in the front and obtain entrance that way. Part of me wanted to go back to the de Chagnys and start over again; I had thought my walk would take much longer; I was not ready yet… before I could turn and run, I lifted my hand and let the heavy brass doorknocker fall, several times. 

Seconds later, the door opened to reveal one of the gendarmes, dressed in his uniform, smiling warmly. “Good day, mademoiselle,” he said politely. “And what can I do for you?”

“I— I am here to see Monsieur Favreaux,” I stammered. “I believe he is expecting me.”

“Monsieur Favreaux, you say? The head inspector?”

I nodded, and he looked at me strangely. 

“I did not realize he was expecting anyone. What is your name, mademoiselle?”

“Christine Daaé, monsieur. I believe he wished to speak to me concerning the events of the Opera Populaire.”

Understanding and further confusion flashed across his face, and he stepped aside opening the door for me. “Come in, Miss Daaé. I don’t think he’s very busy right now; I’ll see what I can do. May I take your things?”

I allowed him to take my cloak and bonnet as he escorted me inside, thanking him with what little power of speech I had left. Despite my heightening apprehension, I glanced around me with curiosity. I had never been inside of a police station before, and certainly not one as large and grand as this one. I had expected it to be harsh and unwelcoming, like a prison, but, to my surprise, it seemed rather comfortable. My escort brought me to a small, well-furnished room, asked me to be seated, and, informing me that Monsieur Favreaux would be with me shortly, left me alone. Sinking into a small, comfortable armchair, I looked around. 

There were no windows. Light came from a small chandelier which hung from the ceiling and a lamp, which sat on a finely carved table in the corner of the room. There were a couple of bookshelves to my left, lining the wall directly across from the door, and a small sofa sat opposite me, separated from my armchair by a low coffee table. Several plaques and portraits hung on the otherwise plain walls; I supposed they were there to commemorate notable members of the police force and their praiseworthy deeds. But I did not have much time to reflect on this. A few minutes had hardly passed when the door opened again, and a man entered, dressed in a fine suit and carrying a small notepad and a pen. 

“Good day, mademoiselle,” he said, extending his hand to me. I rose and accepted it with a small curtsey, and he bowed in the fashion of a true French gentleman. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said presently. “I am Monsieur Favreaux. I was told that you wished to see me.”

“Good day, monsieur,” I responded. “I am Christine Daaé— from the opera house. I understand that my presence has been requested for several days now.”

“Ah, yes; Miss Daaé. You are quite correct; I believe several of my men have attempted to speak to you recently. Forgive me for what must have seemed a most unwelcome intrusion upon your privacy; I assure you that I did not endorse it.”

“Thank you for your concern, monsieur, but I was hardly troubled,” I replied automatically. After all, I had not been accosted by the gendarmes myself; it had been Monsieur de Chagny who had had to deal with them. He smiled warmly. 

“Please be seated,” he told me, taking a seat himself on the sofa and flipping open the small notepad in his hand, his pen at the ready. I suddenly realized that he was going to record everything I said, and had to force myself to take a deep, albeit shaking, breath as I sat down, twisting my fingers nervously together in an attempt to stop them from trembling. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he looked me in the eyes, and, after a moment’s pause, began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took me so long; it was awkward to write for some reason. I might go back and edit it again later, but for now I guess this will work. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> Also update: I am still working on this story, but it’s going to be a while before I publish the next chapter, because I realized there’s some structural stuff I have to fix before I can really keep writing. Thank you all for your patience!


	4. Chapter 4

“I am deeply grateful to you for coming, Miss Daaé,” he said. “I am sorry to have been so insistent upon this meeting; I hear that you have been unwell recently and must offer my sincerest warm wishes for your health.”

“You are very kind, monsieur,” I replied. “I am feeling much better indeed; a few days of rest will work wonders.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Then, after the briefest of pauses, “Shall we begin?”

I swallowed, hard. There was only one answer I could give him; after all, we both knew why I had come. I had even done so of my own accord, in spite of the fact that I had been given every excuse to postpone it… after what seemed like several minutes (although in reality it was a matter of seconds) I felt my lips part. 

“If you wish it, then I am willing.”

“Very well. Where were you on the evening of the Don Juan premiere?”

I allowed myself a small inner sigh of relief. This, at least, was a question that I could answer; everyone knew where I had been. “At the opera house. I was playing the lead role.”

“From what Messieurs Firmin and Andre say, you were quite reluctant to assume the role for fear of the retribution of the opera ghost,” Monsieur Favreaux noted. “Is this true?” 

So he had already spoken to the managers; of course he had; I ought to have expected it. And what else might they have told him of their suspicions and my undeniably questionable actions? Tendrils of cold fear beginning to unfurl themselves inside of me, I replied, “Yes, monsieur.”

“And so you do, in fact, believe in the existence of such a ghost?” 

“How could I not?” I asked. “The stories told amongst the ballet girls are endless.” It was true enough. Erik was indeed but a ghost and a curse to the entirety of the opera company; let him remain that way. To me alone was he a real, flesh-and-blood man, and that was what had caused his ruin. The idea— no, the reality, of Erik as a man could only bring me further pain; that reality stole from me the innocent quivering of a child who had been frightened by ghost stories and replaced it with a terrible, beautiful, all-consuming flame, a passion that ravaged me from the inside out and left me powerless, no, without desire, to do anything but obey. It was better that Erik remain a ghost, both in the minds of the people of Paris and in my own memory. I had not told the inspector a falsehood. 

“Have you any further reasons besides stories to believe in his existence, Miss Daaé?” Monsieur Favreaux prompted me, rescuing me from my thoughts. I faltered; I could not help myself. 

“What do you mean?”

“Have you any proof of your own eyes, or ears, that this— this thing, exists?”

This thing. The words went through me like a knife, and I clenched my jaw. “No.” This was true as well. I had seen and heard proof of an Angel, a demon, a broken man, but no ghost. Erik was hauntingly real. 

“Do you really expect me to believe, mademoiselle, that you have neither seen nor heard a ghost which the entire company claims to have encountered at some point or another?” he asked me, a tinge of incredulousness entering his voice. “I must admit that I find such a thing highly improbable.” 

“If he is a ghost, monsieur, then by definition no one can fully see him, and if he is clever, he will leave no concrete proof as to his existence,” I replied, more calmly than I would have thought possible. “It is quite easy to believe in any ghost if only to explain small misfortunes about the opera house, and I can assure you that half the company’s claims to have seen him are no more than boasts made in an attempt to impress their more gullible companions. As for the rest of the rumors, is it really so strange that I believe them?” 

The inspector looked at me for a long moment, and I met his eyes with as much firmness as I could muster, willing him to accept my involvement in the matter as simply that of a young, confused, frightened chorus girl, one who had believed the stories of a ghost and been connected to the disaster of the opera house purely by accident. But his next words shattered my hopes. 

“This is getting us nowhere, Miss Daaé,” he said, and edge to his tone that I had not heard there yet, a gentle but unshakably determined tone that chilled me to the core, assuring me that he would be as kind and civil as he could, but that he would not rest until he had pried from my unwilling lips the answers he sought. “When you begged to avoid the lead role in Don Juan, did you suspect that an incident such as the destruction of the opera house might occur?”

I swallowed hard in an attempt to rid myself of the dryness in my throat. “I cannot deny that I did.”

“But why?” Monsieur Favreaux pressed. “If the ghost demanded that you play the lead, is it not strange to think that he would also be angry with you for it?”

I faltered. I knew perfectly well that any answer I gave would be insufficient; there was nothing to explain my reluctance to perform Don Juan besides my fear of Erik’s overwhelming obsession with me, but that I could not tell; it was something that could never be spoken of aloud… 

“He is a strange and capricious ghost, monsieur, if the stories are true,” I managed to stammer at last. “It is better to stay out of his affairs entirely.”

Monsieur Favreaux suddenly set aside his notebook and pen and leaned forward to look me directly in the eyes, a gravity in his countenance that made me tremble. “Enough of these games, mademoiselle. I believe in no such ghost, and neither, I think, do you. You were stolen from the stage the night of the premiere, were you not?”

“I— I was,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. He knew; he had guessed the truth… or at least he would soon; I had been a naive fool to imagine that I could come here and answer his questions without betraying Erik and perhaps even sending him to his death…

“And was this kidnapping done by a ghost or a man?” Monsieur Favreaux prompted me. 

“A man, monsieur.” 

“And was this man the same that the mob chased down into the catacombs?”

A violent shudder racked my body at the memory of those voices, those awful voices, baying in unison like the hounds sounding the death-knell of their prey, of Erik, forcing me to leave him behind, to go with Raoul, so that I would be safe from the awful fate that awaited him… 

“He was the same man, monsieur.” 

“Then am I so very far off in assuming, Miss Daaé, that this man is the perpetrator of the crimes committed that night at the opera house?”

I began to weep; I could not help it. Never had I despised myself more than in that moment. I was incapable of lying to him; I knew that my actions so far had only confirmed his suspicions, but I could not bring myself to seal Erik’s condemnation with my own lips. “How should I know?” I demanded helplessly, vainly attempting to blink away my tears. Monsieur Favreaux’s expression softened at my clear distress, but he showed me no mercy. 

“That is for you to tell me. I believe you do know, don’t you?”

I shook my head in useless, desperate denial, willing him to spare me, the tears falling fast down my cheeks. “Please, monsieur— please, I beg of you; don’t make me— I can’t—”

Taking pity on me, he rose, and, crossing the room to kneel beside me, he took my hand in a reassuring, almost fatherly manner. “Mademoiselle, believe me; you have nothing to fear. Every word that crosses your lips in this room will be held in the strictest confidence, and the public will know nothing of the investigation until the affair is over entirely and the criminal brought to justice. You have nothing to be afraid of. Now, tell me: was it the same man?”

He thought I was afraid of some sort of retribution! That I was silent in fear of some threat, perhaps made by the opera ghost whose wrath I had confessed to being afraid of! And the truth was that his kindness and good intent itself kept my lips closed, that I did not fear Erik, but him! Yet his question hung in the air over us like the sword of Damocles, poised to pierce my heart, and I knew that I must answer. I had already betrayed myself and Erik with my tears; the scarcely greater betrayal of my words must follow. I nodded, and covered my face with my hands, crying, unable to bear the sympathetic, yet insistent, look on his face any longer. 

Monsieur Favreaux made several attempts to soothe me, but I did not acknowledge him— I could not, and eventually I heard him leave the room, muttering a few words to someone who seemed to be waiting outside. I hardly cared, so long as he left me alone. For, all of a sudden, every memory that I had forced myself to forget over the past few days had flooded back, fresh and raw and poignant, and I saw with terrible clarity the man I had just condemned, not as a ghost, nor angel, nor demon, but simply as he was— Erik. And it was then that I realized just how terrible of a betrayal I was committing. 

One of the things that I remembered most vividly in that moment was his hands, those long, pale, delicate fingers with a grip of iron and the gentleness of a violinist softly caressing his strings, hands that had killed without the slightest hesitation but had also trembled like a reed in the wind that last time I had sung for him in his underground lair, when he had not thought I was watching. Hnds that had been able to guide me like a puppet on a string, never touching me but rather directing me, coaxing strains of unearthly music from my lips with no more than a gesture and drawing my eyes to whatever he wished without a sound. Hands that had never laid a finger on me until that last awful night when they had fastened mercilessly around my wrists and dragged me down into the darkness, hands that had in rage enclosed themselves around my throat for one endless, terrifying moment before he had regained a semblance of control over himself. 

The other thing I thought of was his voice, that rich, unearthly sound that had filled me with ecstasy so often, that had somehow spoken to my innermost fears and joys and desires all at once, that had both calmed me and reduced me to tears with its consuming, irresistible power. I caught myself listening for that voice now as I cried in that small room in the Paris Police Prefecture, as though it would issue from behind one of those detestable plaques to comfort me just like it had echoed from behind my dressing room mirror so often. But, even as I cried, I knew that I listened in vain; I knew that I would not hear Erik’s voice now, if ever, again; there was no going back to that time when a single word of his would instantly assuage my grief. 

In time, however, my tears gradually lessened on their own, and I heard the door open, and the voice that addressed me, although warm, was not Erik’s. 

“Miss Daaé?” It was Monsieur Favreaux. I lifted my head. 

“Yes?”

He closed the door behind him, and presented me with a cup of herbal tea which I accepted, and inhaled the steam rising from it gratefully, allowing it to fill my lungs with its warm and pleasant aroma. Monsieur Favreaux took up his seat opposite me once more. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not realize that speaking of the matter would bring you so much pain. Would it be too much to ask you to continue, or would you prefer to return another day?” 

I brought the tea to my lips and sipped it; it was hot and sweet as it trickled down my throat, and I took a deep breath. “No— no, I’m fine; thank you for your concern. I— I just—” 

“We can easily continue another day if you wish, mademoiselle,” he told me kindly. “I must admit that I hardly expected you to be so distressed by the subject. Is there anything I can do to ease your mind?”

I shook my head. “There is nothing, monsieur.” And it was true; there was nothing that could possibly save me from my all-consuming hopelessness; I heard the next words leave my lips as though I were a condemned prisoner asking how many hours I had left to live. “What else do you want from me?” I inquired tonelessly. 

Monsieur Favreaux shifted uncomfortably, but he took out his pen and notepad once more. “We need any information you can give us, Miss Daaé,” he said gravely. “This criminal is clearly a dangerous man, and the safety of Parisian society is threatened by his existence; therefore it is essential that we bring him to justice as soon as possible. So you say that your kidnapper is our culprit?”

I nodded miserably. He could not know how terribly it hurt to hear Erik described so; the man I had kissed had certainly done terrible things, but he was not the monster that the police thought they hunted; Erik was somehow both more and less than such a villain. 

“And so you were with him, albeit held against your will, the night the mob searched for his lair?” Monsieur Favreaux prompted me. I nodded again.

“I was.” 

“Did he take you to his lair?” 

Another violent shudder ran over me, and I knew that denial would be useless. “He did, monsieur.”

“Do you recall anything of the way you left?” Monsieur Favreaux asked. “The mob found the entrance, but he was no longer there. We have reason to suspect that he followed you and the vicomte.”

“And what reason is that?” I asked in spite of myself, trying to hide the thrill of hope and relief that flustered my cheeks as I heard that he had not been caught by the mob. 

“The lair has been searched thoroughly; there is no clear escape route, and I can hardly imagine there being two, particularly two which are so extraordinarily successful,” Monsieur Favreaux told me, his tone dry with apparent frustration. “Therefore we assumed that he followed you and the vicomte as you fled, but we cannot find the passageway. Have you any memory of it?” 

“It was near the portcullis,” I lied, “right beside the path that led down to the boat.” Monsieur Favreaux looked at me strangely. 

“The police have combed that wall a hundred times, Miss Daaé,” he said. “Do you really expect me to believe that there is indeed a passageway there?”

“There is,” I protested, willing him to believe my falsehood. “It looks like just another part of the wall if it’s closed; there’s some sort of hidden lever that opens it near the organ.”

“And you have seen this mechanism with your own eyes? Where exactly is this lever?” 

“I don’t know,” I told him desperately. “His back was turned; I couldn’t see exactly where it was.”

“What do you mean, ‘his back was turned’? You and the vicomte didn’t find the passageway yourself?” 

I shook my head. To think that Raoul and I could have ever outwitted Erik, or escaped him on our own! Surely the police had realized that such a thing was impossible; Erik’s genius was wholly unmatched; if I knew any of his secrets, it was because he had chosen to reveal them. Not because I had been intelligent enough to guess. But the inspector was staring at me in confusion. 

“Do you really mean to tell me that this madman actually let the two of you go?” he demanded incredulously. I nodded. 

“He did.” 

“But why?” 

Why? That was another question that I could not answer; indeed, I hardly knew the answer well enough myself to be able to put it into words. And it was too sacred, much too sacred, to be defiled in this room… and so I sat there in silence for a long time. It didn’t matter what the inspector wanted to know; there was one thing, at least, which would not cross my lips. 

Monsieur Favreaux cleared his throat, and I remembered that I was in the middle of an interrogation. “Miss Daaé?” he prompted me. “Do you have any suspicions as to why he let you go?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, monsieur,” I murmured. “I didn’t expect it.” I could not explain the kiss to him; it was too sacred somehow and hardly made sense even to me, and there was no other rational explanation I could offer him. “I— I don’t know, sir,” I repeated, stupidly. 

“But you are certain that he did release you of his own free will? That he was not coerced into doing so by any threats or whatnot on the part of the vicomte?”

“No— no; he wasn’t afraid of Raoul; it was all of his own free will. Raoul couldn’t make him do anything.”

“I don’t understand,” Monsieur Favreaux said quietly after a long moment’s pause. “This man— this thing— showed no hesitation in murdering multiple people in cold blood, in nearly destroying the opera house and everyone inside, in kidnapping you, yet he let you go without so much as a threat? Am I mistaken somewhere, mademoiselle?”

I shook my head. “On the contrary, you are entirely correct, monsieur.” 

He sighed in bewildered resignation. “In that case, you are fortunate indeed to have escaped his clutches, Miss Daaé. He is clearly a madman with no regard for the lives of others, and operates on the slightest whim. Do you know anything else about him?”

And so the interview continued for what felt like several hours, with my attempts to mislead the inspector growing more and more feeble as I began to succumb to my physical and emotional exhaustion.

As I grew increasingly weary, Monsieur Favreaux seemed to grow even more shrewd and clever, until I was afraid to say anything lest I give away the entire story. I was unable to hide that Erik was indeed the infamous Phantom of the Opera so highly feared by the ballerinas, and that I had known of his existence for over a year prior to the Don Juan premiere. Every word that fell from my lips felt like a dagger piercing my heart; I would have rather been caught by the mob myself than remain in my seat a moment longer by the time the inspector was finished. 

At last he rose, and offered me his hand. “Thank you very much, Miss Daaé. We will alert you if there is news concerning the case.”

I nodded, and slowly got to my feet as well. “Do you think you’ll find him?” I asked. Monsieur Favreaux shrugged. 

“I most certainly hope so. We’ve got a decent chance of catching him now, and heaven knows that none of us will be safe while a madman like that is still alive. Suffice it to say that we will do our best, mademoiselle; that much I can assure you.”

Terror gripped me at the chilling implication of his words, and I clutched at his arm before he could open the door. “You— you don’t mean he’ll be killed if he’s caught, do you?” 

Monsieur Favreaux paused; then he turned and looked at me gravely. “I’m afraid so,” he told me gently. “I can’t think of a judge in Paris who wouldn’t sentence him to death for his crimes, and I can’t honestly say that I wouldn’t agree with him. I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but I’m afraid it’s only justice.”

“Surely not,” I breathed, burning tears welling up in my eyes. “Please, monsieur… death is so cruel; even if he is guilty of all the crimes he is accused of… surely no human being deserves such a dreadful fate…” 

“If he has killed others, no judge will deem the gallows so very unfitting,” Monsieur Favreaux said. “Perhaps it is a cruel fate, but he is condemned by his own actions, not the law, and I cannot in good conscience rest until he is brought to justice. I am sorry that it brings you pain, Miss Daaé, but perhaps your pity would be better spent on this man’s innocent victims rather than the murderer himself.”

And he escorted me out. I was shaking from head to toe with the horror of what he had told me; my legs nearly refused to hold me up as the door of the police station closed behind me. To think that Erik might die at the end of a hangman’s noose, and in part because of what I had said… a sob choked me, and I began to run blindly away from the police station when I collided headfirst with someone in the street. 

“I’m so sorry,” I gasped, stumbling backwards. “Forgive me…”

“Christine?” I instantly recognized the voice, and, struggling to recollect myself, found myself looking up into the familiar face of Madame Giry. 

“Christine, what are you doing here?” she demanded. “I thought you were staying with Raoul and his family. This is no place for a young girl to wander about alone.”

“I— the police insisted on talking to me,” I stammered. “What are you doing here?” 

Sharp concern flickered in her eyes. “I am here for the same reason you are, my dear,” she told me. “But surely— didn't they give you more time? I don’t understand.”

“They did,” I confessed, faltering, “or at least Raoul tried to— but I had to get it over with—” 

Madame Giry took me by the shoulders, gently but firmly, locking her steel-grey eyes with mine, refusing to let me look away. “Christine,” she said, “what happened? The police didn’t treat you badly, did they?” 

I shook my head, tears beginning to spill down my cheeks in spite of my best efforts. “No,” I protested, “but I’m afraid they’ll catch Erik because— because of something I said—and then they’re going to kill him— and it’ll be because of me—”

Before I could say another word, Madame Giry had pulled me into a tight hug, silencing me. “It’ll be alright,” she said firmly, and there was an edge of determination to her voice that had not been there before. “They’re not going to catch him, Christine; I promise you. You know he’s much more clever than they are; they’ll never find him. And none of this— not even the tiniest bit of it— is your fault. Do you understand me?” 

“Yes, but— but what if they find him?” I sobbed. “And what if he knows I helped them— and dies— hating me—” And I dissolved into sobs, and Madame Giry pulled away to look me in the eyes. 

“They won’t find him, Christine,” she said sternly. “Now, listen to me: you’re staying with the de Chagnys, aren’t you?” 

I gulped back another sob, and nodded. 

“Are they treating you well?” 

I nodded again. 

“Then listen.” She pressed several francs into my hand. “I want you to take this and get the nearest cab back to the de Chagnys’ house, and don’t worry about Erik again. What’s done is done, and you won’t make it any better by crying over it, and if you wander around this part of Paris for much longer, you’ll get into some sort of trouble. Do you hear me?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“Enough,” she said, pressing a finger to her lips. “I’ll see to it that the police are properly confused; now go so I can think of a story to tell them. It’ll be alright, Christine.”

“But—” I began to protest, but Madame Giry had already begun hailing a cab. The driver stopped at the curb beside us. 

“Do you know the way to the de Chagny mansion?” she called up to him. 

“That I do,” he replied. “Need a lift, m’lady?” 

“I want you to take this girl there right now,” she instructed, “and no funny business, or I’ll see to it that you never drive a cab again. Can you do that?” 

He grinned. “Sure thing. I’ll get her there within a quarter of an hour.”

“Thank you.” Turning to me, “Give him the money to pay for your ride, Christine.”

I wordlessly handed him the francs she had just given me, and he pocketed them. “Hop right in, miss, and we’ll be off.”

I turned back to Madame Giry, and there was warmth in her eyes as she looked at me. “I’ll take care of the police,” she reassured me. “Don’t worry about a thing; just go back to the de Chagnys’ and rest.”

I nodded, finally relenting. “Thank you.”

She embraced me tightly again. “You didn’t deserve any of this, my dear,” she said firmly. “It’s the least I can do. Now go; everything will be alright.” And with that, she let go of me and I climbed into the cab. The driver took off, and she soon fell out of sight. 

As soon as I could no longer see her, I broke down and wept bitterly, for the innocence I had lost, for Erik and the danger he faced, for the awful betrayal I had just committed. Slowly, the numbness of complete and utter despair settled over me, silencing my sobs more effectively than any reassurance ever could, reducing me to an empty, hollow shell, void of joy, void of hope, void of even that agonizing, heartrending sorrow that I had felt only moments ago, and leaving my with only a dull, aching grief that weighed down my eyelids and slowed my every movement. 

It was in this state that I reached the de Chagny house. Raoul was waiting anxiously by the front door as I climbed down from the cab, and I let him rush to me and take my hands in his, but it was not me that he held. I felt as though my very soul had been crushed and taken from my body; whoever I was— or had been— was gone; a bottomless void had sucked her away and replaced her with the lifeless, soulless automaton that I had become. 

I was silent as I turned my face upward to Raoul’s, watching as his eyes flitted back and forth across my countenance, searching for something, anything, but I knew there was nothing there for him to find besides the quiet emptiness of my despair. There was not so much as a single tear in my eyes which might betray me, or force me to feel something again. Raoul gripped my hands tightly. 

“Christine, what happened? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s done,” I told him hollowly. “I told them what I had to, and it’s over, and I— I think I need to sit down.” 

“But did they treat you well?” Raoul persisted, his brow furrowed with concern, but he led me inside and helped me take off my snow-covered cloak and bonnet nonetheless. I nodded. 

“Monsieur Favreaux was very kind to me. I could not have asked for a more gentlemanly reception.”

Raoul ushered me into the drawing room to sit and ordered a nearby servant to make tea. He did not say a word, although I could tell he desperately wanted to know more; seeming to realize that speech was useless, he simply sat beside me on the sofa, he simply sat down beside me on the sofa, taking my hand in his and gently rubbing his thumb in circles over the back of it, a gesture which I would have found comforting had I not been beyond the reach of any comfort. At length, I rested my head on his shoulder, and we simply sat there for a long time, and I drank the tea that the servant brought me in silence. 

To my own surprise, I was able to face the ordeal of dinner quite easily, greeting the de Chagnys with a smile that did not reach my eyes and swallowing my food mechanically. It must be noted that Monsieur de Chagny addressed me with greater warmth than he had done hitherto, and that this clearly annoyed Philippe, so much that he hardly glanced at me once, although we sat directly across from each other. For once, there was lively conversation, but I did ont partake in it. My lips were sealed by the very words that I had uttered merely an hour or so ago, and I could not find it in myself to talk and laugh as the de Chagny family did. 

I retired to my room early that night, and Raoul left me alone. I think it was because he didn’t know what to do with me, and I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t know what to do with myself, either. My throat was unbearably tight, but I felt no urge to cry, and my eyelids seemed weighed down by iron, but I had no desire to sleep. So I simply changed into a nightgown and curled myself up onto the window seat, watching the sun drown itself in flame. 

Every single word that had been said in that awful interrogation came back to haunt me as I sat there; as though it were not enough that I had had to endure it once, the vivid memory of every detail now flaunted itself in the forefront of my mind, and I was too wretched to offer any resistance. 

One thing in particular that Monsieur Favreaux had mentioned haunted me: he had said that the gendarmes had received a brief description of Erik’s face from none other than Raoul. I understood why Raoul had done it; between the ballet girls’ stories and the now well-known mask that Erik wore, it was of little use to refuse the gendarmes a description of his face… but the very idea just seemed so cruel. To expose one of Erik’s greatest weaknesses like that… to think that he might again be betrayed by his face… I knew it could not be helped; I myself had confirmed, but not elaborated upon, the description when confronted by Monsieur Favreaux, but something about it hurt me deeply nonetheless. 

And Monsieur Favreaux had asked why Erik had freed Raoul and I! I could not tell him the truth; even if I had, he would never have believed me, and the real reason was something far too precious, far too sacred, to be defiled by my lips in an interrogation room where every word I said would only be used to incriminate Erik. But did I know why he had let us go? Of course I knew; I would never be able to forget it until the day I died. 

The dying sun caught on the gilded roof of the Opera House, which was visible from my window, albeit barely, blinding me with a ray of gold so bright that it might have shone directly from heaven itself rather than being a mere reflection. And, for a moment, it seemed as though I were, not perched in a corner of the iridescent, flaming sky, but far beneath the earth, in the darkness of that lair which had seemed to either consume or twist any light that dared penetrate it yet irresistibly beckoned to my soul nonetheless.

For a moment, it seemed as though I were back in that lair with Erik, running my trembling, inexperienced fingers over the twisted ridges and lumps of his deformity, drawing his face down to mine… the first thing that I had been aware of as I had kissed him was the icy, lifeless cold of his lips and the sudden, chilling taste of what might have been life but might have just as easily been a corpse. A deathly shudder had run over me from head to toe, and I had clung desperately to him a moment longer, willing myself not to run away, to do as I had said I would and show him that he was not alone, or a monster, that he was simply another human being… but after several seconds I could not bear the cold, corpselike feel of his lips on mine any longer and, pulling away, had flung my arms around his skeletal frame instead, loathing myself for my own weakness, vainly struggling not to gag at the chill that had branded itself on my lips. After all of this, I was too weak, incapable of giving him even the smallest token of what I felt; even when I wanted to with every fiber of my being, I could not… and so I had sobbed into his shoulder, hating myself, hating that I had failed to show him the compassion I ached to give. Then I had felt his shoulders shaking, and realized that he was crying as hard as I was, and I had not understood. How could Erik, the merciless Angel, the man of music and art and unspeakable beauty, be crying? But crying he was; I had heard his choked gasps and felt his shuddering, paper-thin form in my arms, and the realization was so great that I had suddenly looked up into his hideous, corpselike face without fear. 

Tears had made sparkling trails down his cheeks; the same droplets which fell down his unblemished left cheek also trickled down over the grotesque, malformed side of his face. And something about the light that sparkled in those tears, or the blurriness in my vision from tears of my own, suddenly had made him beautiful. Not physically beautiful; that was something that Erik could never be, but in that moment I no longer wished him to be so; I no longer had any desire to see him any way other than exactly how he was. In that moment, for the first time, I had beheld him not as half beautiful and half twisted, not as half good and half evil, but simply as Erik, a man as broken as I myself was. 

And so I had reached up and gently wiped away the tears that glistened in every crevice of his deformity, and he had flinched at my touch, but continued to simply look down at me as though he could not believe I was actually there, touching him, without so much as looking away from the distorted mass of scarred flesh that was his face, or fleeing from the horror of all that he had done. Then our eyes had met, and a strange, sudden desire had stirred within me, as deep and poignant as any of the music that our two souls had ever shared, and I had had no wish to resist its power. There had been no question in my heart as I had silently surrendered myself to the flame that had lit itself inside me, and I had found myself rising up on my toes to press my lips to his once more, afraid to move too quickly lest I lose a single moment or he somehow vanish from my arms.  
I kissed him a second time, and this time the kiss did not reek of death, and I had no desire to pull away. The taste of his hot tears strangely intermingled with that of his cold lips on mine, and a wonderfully contrasting warmth began to glow somewhere deep in my chest, spreading slowly through me until every inch of my body tingled with its burning heat. A corpse? This was no corpse that I surrendered myself to; he was everything that was life, that was beautiful: he was Erik. 

Erik had stiffened for a moment; then I had felt his thin, trembling arms embrace me, hesitantly at first, then gently, tenderly, and at last he had gripped me tightly, passionately, as though I were the only thing he had left in the world to cling to, and he had kissed me back, and for that one endless moment, nothing had mattered, no, nothing had even existed, besides the two of us and the one soul that we shared. 

That was what I could never tell Monsieur Favreaux, or even Raoul, or anyone: that we had shared something indescribable, something all-consuming and beautiful and unforgettable, in that kiss, and that that was why he had let Raoul and I go. In that moment, I had been his, and would have been even if we had been thousands of miles apart, even if we would never see each other again in life or death, and setting Raoul and I free could not change that. Nothing could ever change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after writing and rewriting this investigation scene, I finally decided to just go ahead and post this. I’ll probably edit it again later after the whole thing is done. Anyway, enjoy and thank you all for being so patient; I know it’s been a little while since I updated this story.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the first part of this chapter is from Erik’s POV, and the second part is from Christine’s. I wasn’t quite sure how to format it, so I just put their names in parentheses when their POVs began, but I thought I might as well give you guys a heads up here, too.

(Erik)

Christine. The warmth of her slender fingers had long since faded from the ring I wore, leaving it cold and heavy against my skin. No wonder she had returned it; it felt like an iron fetter, chaining me down in the darkness where I belonged, binding me tightly to the enormity of all the ways I had hurt and broken her. She had never deserved any of it; no, she was the angel who was meant to reach whatever ascents lay above Heaven, and I was the fragmented shell of a man— or monster?— who had rightfully earned his place in Hell a thousand times over. 

My fingers, the same fleshless, cruel fingers that had fastened themselves in a murderous grip around Christine’s pale throat that awful night, found their way to the gruesome, accursed scars on the side of my face, and, to my surprise, my hand came away wet with tears, tears that I had not been aware of until now. In vain I struggled to wipe them away, but they only fell faster, until my entire body was racked with dry, choking, silent sobs as I wordlessly cried out in anguish and remorse for all that I had done. 

I could still hear her voice, its angelic tone nearly drowned out by her cries of pain as she pleaded with me to spare the wretched de Chagny boy. Her cries rang in my ears even now— I should never be able to rid myself of the memory, and God in His cruelty could not have inflicted upon me a worse torment. And her sobs… I would gladly have shed a thousand drops of my own blood to spare her a single crystal tear, but it was too late now. Christine was gone— forever, and nothing could reverse what I had done to her. 

Footsteps swiftly approached the cellar where I had from overhead, and I instinctively recoiled from the sound, pressing myself to the cold stone wall behind a barrel of I know not what. Then the trapdoor leading to the world above swung open, and sharp rays of lantern light pierced my eyes, blinding me as I groped for a scrap of cloth to cover my face with. 

“Erik?” The voice was Madame Giry’s, and I crawled out from behind the barrel, stooping a little as I stood so as not to hit my head on the low beams that held up the roof of the cellar. Her sharp gaze took in my appearance with a single glance: the missing mask, the few bedraggled wisps of hair that clung stubbornly to my scalp, the filth that covered the cellar floor soaking my knees and elbows. Unable to find the rag that I had used earlier, I pressed my hand to the deformed side of my face and looked down at her, not quite able to meet her eyes. 

“There is no need for you to cover your face,” she said, shortly, but not unkindly. It had always been a gift of hers to be strict without sounding cruel. But I shook my head nonetheless. 

“Why?” I croaked. My voice, that rich, velvet entity that had enchanted and controlled Christine, was weak and shaking, rusty with disuse. She took a familiar white object from within the depths of her apron and extended it to me. 

“Meg found it before the police ransacked your lair,” she told me, “and I thought you might like it returned. I do not think you will be able to put it on easily if your hand is covering your face, however, and so I advise that you stop trying to conceal what I have already seen and instead relieve yourself of your clear discomfort upon feeling air against your face like other men.” 

Slowly I lowered my hand and looked her in the eyes for the first time, scanning her countenance closely for any of the signs of repulsion that I had long since become accustomed to. Perhaps her face had gone a little whiter, but she did not flinch or look away, and impatiently gestured towards the mask. “Well?” she questioned me. “Would you like it or not? Or have you suddenly gained a newfound appreciation for your natural state of being?” 

I reached out and snatched the mask, but did not put it on. “What do you want?” I asked. “Have you simply come to return the mask? Or have you joined forces with those conspiring to bring me to justice?” 

Madame Giry sighed. “Neither. In fact, I have come to warn you. You cannot stay here, Erik.”

I set the mask down on the nearest barrel. “And why not?” 

“The police are searching the entire opera house inch by inch; it will not be long before this cellar is discovered, and, if you are caught, you will hang. Is that what you want?” 

A harsh, mocking laugh escaped my parched lips. “It would be rather fitting, don’t you think? The opera ghost, who strangled so many innocent victims with his awful red lasso, dead at the end of a hangman’s noose? The Vicomte de Chagny would find it rather amusing, I daresay.”

Madame Giry’s lips pursed together in a thin line of disapproval, and she was silent for a while. Then she said, “There is another who would not find it nearly so amusing. Surely you would not cause her even more heartbreak by refusing to lift so much as a finger to save your own life.” 

A solitary tear traced its way down my cheek, slowly trickling over every ridge, every scar… I had long since memorized the sensation; I knew it far too well. But this… this news, and the sensation it brought me, was strange and unfamiliar; surely it could not be… 

“What are you saying?” I demanded.

“I am saying that the only way you could possibly cause Christine Daaé further anguish is to inflict upon her the heartbreak that your death would bring.” 

My hands balled themselves into fists, my nails digging so deep into my palms that I thought it would draw blood. “You’re lying. Christine would never mourn me.” 

“In that, I am afraid we both know you are sadly mistaken,” Madame Giry said, somewhat coldly. “I have known Christine since she was a child; I believe I ought to know what might cause her pain.” 

“And I have seen the depths of her soul, as she has mine,” I responded through gritted teeth. “We both know she has no reason to pity me.” 

“Yet, despite the countless ways you have hurt her, she clings to your memory still,” Madame Giry noted. “In death, you would force upon her a freedom that she does not want, and bind her instead in chains of grief and loss. Is that not proof enough that she cares deeply for you?” 

Rough tears began to run down my cheeks. So Christine clung to her pain, much like I did. It was almost as though I were the one who had inflicted the habit on her, and the thought was nearly too awful to bear. “If she does indeed care for me, it is against her own better judgement, and the possibility that my death might cause her sorrow does not negate the fact that justice calls for my blood,” I retorted bitterly. “I—” 

This time it was Madame Giry who gave a short, mirthless laugh, cutting me short. “Since when have you cared for justice, Erik?” 

“Since an angel bestowed upon me compassion that I did not deserve!” 

“And yet you would punish her more than yourself with your own death!” Madame Giry stopped abruptly, as though struggling to compose herself. “I cannot and will not deny that you have much reason for atonement, Erik,” she said at last, “but I will not allow your stubborn sense of self-loathing to blind you in the name of some false redemption. That is not what Christine gave you her compassion for.” 

“How dare you?” I demanded, hot rage boiling inside of me. “How dare you use her name against me like this, even now… you have no idea, Giry… Christine and I have shared our very souls—” 

“For someone with such extensive knowledge of Christine’s soul, you clearly know very little of her heart,” Madame Giry replied. “Despite what you have apparently convinced yourself, she does not wish you dead, and, as her name seems to be the only thing which has any effect whatsoever on you, I intend to use it until you abandon whatever ideas you have of playing the martyr. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Abundantly so, madame.” I spat as much venom as I coud into those three words, but I knew she was right. I could not simply allow the police to capture and kill me, not now. I owed it to myself to survive— I owed it to Christine. “I see that you have deprived me of the relief of death, and so I have little choice now but to go on. Your trap has been laid skillfully indeed.” 

“You ought to have recognized it; it was not so very different from many a plot of your own,” Madame Giry retorted. “You have very little guilt yourself for using the circumstances to suit your own needs, and neither, it seems, do I. Perhaps we are not so dissimilar after all.”

“Well, what would you have me do now, if I am not to be allowed condemnation by a jury?” I asked, deliberately ignoring the insinuation she had just made. “I presume I am ont to remain in this cellar any longer?” 

Her shoulders relaxed visibly. “I know of a place in an old church not far from here, but it is too dangerous to move you there just yet,” she said. “At midnight tonight I will return and escort you there.” 

“And if I am discovered first?” This comment earned me a stern glare, the likes of which I had seen directed at the ballet girls many times. 

“You will not be discovered,” she said shortly. “I have spoken to the police myself; they do not know enough yet.”

Reassuring as her words were meant to be, they sent a tingle down my spine. So the police were interrogating anyone connected with the affair of the opera ghost, which meant… “Madame?” 

“Yes?” 

“You are quite certain that Christine has a care whether I live or die?” 

Madame Giry, who had been turning to leave, stopped and looked back at me, her countenance grave. “I saw her today,” she said. “Christine. At the police station. They had insisted on speaking to her at last, and she went this morning, although quite against her will. It was enough to make the evening paper.”

“And?” I prompted. My mouth had gone completely dry. 

“She is afraid for your life, Erik. Now that she has been questioned, she will hold herself responsible for whatever the police discover, and I do not think she will be able to live with herself if harm comes to you.”

“Is— is that why you came here today?” 

“I swore I would do what lay in my power to keep you safe,” she said curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to. One does not simply have one’s livelihood stolen by an opera fire and then have the leisure to visit with the perpetrator of the crime for hours on end.” She thrust a folded newspaper at me from somewhere within the folds of her stiff black dress and turned to leave, decisively this time. “There is the evening news, if you would like it. I will return for you at midnight.” And she left me alone, the heavy trapdoor closing behind her with a bang. Her footsteps echoed above my head for a few seconds, and she was gone. 

I stared down at the slightly crumpled paper in my hand, breathing heavily. So they had questioned Christine, and she had been reluctant to answer. Did she not think that I deserved justice, or was she simply too soft-hearted to wish death on another living creature? With trembling fingers I flipped through the paper until I found the article I was looking for: Soprano Diva Pleads Ignorance. 

There was a small picture of her face, a black-and-white photograph which must have been taken not long after her Elissa debut, and the very sight made me catch my breath. She was smiling, exhilarated by her triumph… anguish had numbed the memory of just how beautiful her eyes were when they sparkled with joy. If only I had not stolen that precious ecstasy from her, and replaced it with fear and sorrow and pain… what had I ever offered her besides the unattainable and undesirable? She had sung for me and me alone that night, and I had rewarded her with what? Scant praise and a harsh rebuke for accepting a bouquet from the Vicomte de Chagny. Well, she was his now, and our paths would never cross again—they must not. I could only bring her pain that she did not deserve, and the Vicomte, no matter his faults, would treat her well; he would give her a lifetime of comfort and bliss that I could never hope to compare to. 

But she had given herself to me, wholly and without hesitation, if only for that one precious moment when our lips had met… the dying coals of hope inside of me suddenly sputtered to life, and, gritting my teeth against the flame, I crumpled the paper in my fist and threw it to the ground, where it lay serenely, with Christine’s face smiling up at me in the darkness. She could not possibly care for me— she must not. Her fragile innocence had already been shattered, and I refused to do the same to her yet unbroken spirit by indulging my own hopes and desires. It was over; I could not go back now; I would have to learn to live without the light and beauty that her soul contained. She was too pure, too beautiful, to have ever belonged to someone as broken as I was. I sank to my knees, and covered my face with my hands, fighting the sobs that threatened to choke me once more. I refused to look back at the newspaper; I could not bear to know what Christine had or had not said. I would read it later. 

(Christine) 

Erik. I sat bolt upright in bed, trembling from head to toe, sweat and tears intermingled running down my cheeks, and a hand clamped over my mouth to stifle a scream. He had been caught… and it was all my fault… the fatal gunshot rang through the air, and I could not even scream out his name… 

The vision was so terrible, so vivid and fresh in my mind, that it was several moments before I realized that I was in my room in the de Chagnys, tangled in my own sheets, and that I must have been dreaming. Relief and terror and anguish flooded me simultaneously, and I fell back on my pillow, shaking with sobs that I could not hold back. 

It had only been a dream; I realized that now, but it had felt so real— Erik bursting free of his captors, reaching for me, my name on his lips… and then the silver pistol that had ended it all in that one awful, unbearable moment… I had not even been given the chance to beg his forgiveness. And now I could do so no more easily than I had been able to in my nightmare; perhaps Erik was alive, but I could not reach him; I could not confess what I had done and plead with him to forgive me; he was gone, and not even the police’s best efforts could find him. 

The gunshot echoed in my ears, and I could not bear the memory. It had no more than a figment of my imagination, but I could not rid myself of the guilt that consumed me as I lay there in bed crying, the vision of Erik crumpling to the ground flashing before my eyes again and again. Perhaps it had not been real; perhaps it would never happen… but I had watched Erik die, and I could not forget it any sooner than I could forgive myself for all that I had done. 

At last I regained enough control to untangle myself from the bedclothes, and, kicking them away, sat up on the edge of the bed, still drenched in sweat and trembling, fighting back my tears so as not to wake Raoul or the de Chagnys. Just as surely as I had known that Raoul could not come with me to the police, I knew I could not go to him now. His was not the comfort I craved; his voice was not the one I ached to hear. And so, although there was a part of me that longed for the warmth of Raoul’s strong arms around me, and for his gentle whispers of love and reassurance in my ear, I chose instead to silence my sobs by sheer force of will, knowing that I could not bear Raoul’s presence just now and clinging instead to the memory of those colder arms that had held me just that once, and the dying echoes of a voice that I was sure I would never hear again. 

It was several minutes before I could begin to calm myself, but eventually I stood up, and, wrapping a dressing gown and shawl about my shoulders, undid the window latch and let the night in. The air was crisp and cold and refreshing, and I drew a deep breath as a gentle breeze blew past my face, wavering back and forth for a moment, then darting away into the starry darkness. 

The stars shone above me in their vast expanse, nodding and twinkling among themselves as if they knew some delightful secret that they could never share with the mortals of earth save by their sheer distant beauty. Father had once said that the stars were the lanterns lit by the angels in heaven to comfort all of God’s children in the darkness, lest they be frightened. I had not understood him then. How could one be frightened of the darkness, that velvety allure of mystery and beauty and secrets so sacred you dared not utter them aloud, and especially not in the daytime? But now I knew better. Where there was beauty, there was also ugliness and pain, and the darkness was dangerous: it made it too difficult to distinguish one from the other. And so therein were concealed the most beautiful things, but also the most hideous, and the most impure, those things which dared not let themselves be caught by the eyes of man. 

Perhaps it was a kindness of the night that it hid those things, I reflected. After all, there was ugliness which could not be helped, or which had been shaped against its own will; surely it would be cruel to force such a thing into the light of day, where it would be scorned and downtrodden by any respectable human being. Perhaps the darkness lent hideousness itself a strange, irresistible form of beauty, for those who were brave enough to venture where the light did not penetrate. Or at least that was what Erik had told me once, when, in the depths of the passageway to his home, the lantern had sputtered and gone out, and we had been forced to continue our journey in the pitch blackness. Erik had told me many things in the darkness, far more so than he ever had by the light of day. Another gust of wind picked up, tossing my curls about, and, shivering, I closed the window. The room was getting cold. 

Lighting my lamp, I curled up in the armchair next to the window, and, hugging my knees tightly to my chest, resolved to wait for dawn. My eyes were heavy, but I refused to let myself go back to sleep. Erik’s cry, the police’s shouts, the gunshot and my own agonized scream… all of these rang in my ears still, and I did not trust myself not to have another nightmare. I would far rather face physical exhaustion than an awful vision such as the one I had already endured that night. 

Hours passed as I kept my lonely vigil, until my limbs were stiff and aching, until my eyes threatened to close in spite of themselves, but dawn did not betray me, and at last the first golden rays of the sun began to peer over the horizon, promising light and color and warmth. And as I sat there, in the soft grey glow of the morning, a gentle knock came at my door. 

I hesitated. I did not want to speak to Raoul just yet, and I could not imagine who else it might be. And, as much as I would have liked to pretend to be asleep, I knew the light from my lamp would surely be visible from under my door; it would be apparent to anyone in the hallway that I was awake. 

“Who is it?” I called. The door creaked open to reveal Charlotte, carrying a candle and a small tray, upon which sat a steaming teapot, a couple of saucers for cream and sugar and honey, and an empty teacup. 

“Miss— Christine? I saw your light on, and thought you might like a hot drink.”

I felt a slow smile spread across my lips. “I would like it very much. Thank you.” She set down the tray, and poured me a cup of steaming tea. I stirred the cream and honey into it in silence. Charlotte watched me for a few seconds, fidgeting a little, and at last she spoke. 

“Miss?” 

“Please, Charlotte; call me Christine.”

“Christine? May I ask you something?” 

I sipped my tea. “What is it?” 

“How long have you been awake?” 

I looked up at her. She met my gaze calmly, firmly, waiting for my reply, and I knew I could not lie to her. “I think it’s been several hours. I’m not sure exactly when I woke up, but I— I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“A nightmare?” Charlotte asked gently. Caught by surprise, I nodded, and she looked down at me sympathetically. “It’s hardly unexpected, given the events of late,” she told me matter-of-factly. “You were bound to dream of it sooner or later, and I cannot imagine that such dreams would be pleasant.” 

“When did you realize I was up?” I asked quietly.

“I saw the light in your room an hour or so ago. Eventually I realized you weren’t going back to bed, and thought a cup of tea seemed appropriate.” 

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing; I’m only doing my duty.” But her soft smile expressed a gratitude that she would not say aloud. We sat in silence for a long time before I spoke again. 

“Charlotte?” 

“Yes?” 

“Have you ever had to do something that might bring great harm to someone you loved very dearly?” 

Charlotte was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I have.” 

“What would you do if it did hurt them— terribly, and there was nothing you could do to fix it or ask their forgiveness?” 

Charlotte sighed. “I suppose I would have to forgive myself eventually, and do what I could to make amends, even if the thing was impossible,” she said. “I don’t know.” Then, “Do you care for this person very much, Christine?” 

I fiercely blinked back the hot tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. “I do. More than I can possibly say.”

“And do they know it?” 

“I hope so.” My voice shook despite my best efforts, and Charlotte nodded sympathetically.  
“If they do know it, perhaps they will forgive you before you can even ask it of them. Or are you more afraid of your own shame than their anger?” 

“I— I don’t know.” 

Charlotte looked down at me with a strange solemnity in her countenance. “I’m very sorry,” she said at last. “You are a kind-hearted person by nature, however, and I am sure that whoever this person is will realize that you had no malicious intent, and that your actions could hardly have been helped. Only a cruel or foolish person would judge you harshly in such a matter.” 

I sighed. “Perhaps. But I believe I should hate myself if harm came to them because of me.” 

“And I believe that perhaps you do not deserve your own hatred.” Charlotte picked up the tray and turned to leave. “I must go now; I have other duties to attend to,” she told me. “Please do not hesitate to call for me if you need anything.” 

I nodded. “Thank you.” She looked back at me and smiled. 

“You are quite welcome, Christine.” Then she was gone, and I drank the last of my tea in solitude. I wanted to believe her, to believe that Erik would not hate me if he knew what I had done, but I could not bring myself to. Surely, if he was caught and learned my part in it, he would think that I had betrayed him out of some bitterness, hatred even, when nothing could be further from the truth. But I could not tell him that, and so he would never know. Perhaps he would die without knowing. 

Giving myself a firm mental shake, I stood up and began to dress for the day. I must not dwell on these thoughts; as Madame Giry had said, it would hardly change anything, and I would only torment myself further. And, as little confidence as I had in my abilities to hide it, it would not do to let Raoul’s family see how much I cared. I pulled my curls back with a cream-colored ribbon and looked my reflection in the mirror up and down as firmly as I could, hoping that nothing in my appearance would betray my exhaustion. It was nearly time for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be honest; as much as I enjoyed writing this chapter, I had a lot of trouble finding Erik’s voice, and he’s a very tricky character for me to write, as is Madame Giry. I know there hasn’t been much of him yet, but I’m going to include a narrative from his POV, since I feel like the story wouldn’t completely make sense without it, and any feedback on that would be greatly appreciated. As always, thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, because I have no self-control (sorry), I have now added a third POV: Raoul. Enjoy.

(Raoul) 

“Is that all you want, Father?” I asked, as calmly as I could. My father stopped his pacing and looked at me. 

“It is hardly all I want. It is impossible that Christine knows as little as she confessed, and I want to know everything— all of it, do you understand me? I want that man caught and hung from the highest gallows in France.”

“Christine told them everything she knew,” I replied. It was a lie, and I knew it, even though Christine had not directly told me so herself, but I could not have her questioned again. It had been nearly a week since the first interrogation, and, although she laughed and talked and maintained an overall facade of unconcern, there was a deep, unspoken pain in her eyes, a guilt that had been there ever since she had been forced to betray the Phantom she had known to the police, and I knew it affected her far more deeply than she would ever admit out loud. 

“Christine told them everything she knew? Then why has this— this Phantom, as you say— not captured yet?” my father demanded. 

“He deceived her just as fully as he deceived everyone else,” I explained through gritted teeth. “The managers, the entire company… any of them could have done more to discover his identity and stop him. Why are you so fixated on Christine?”

“Monsieur Favreaux told me that she was reluctant to speak,” Father replied. “Why would that be if she did not have something to hide?” 

“If you had been through such a terrible ordeal, perhaps you would be little more willing than she is to relive it for the sake of a forced interrogation!” I retorted hotly, and immediately fell silent at my father’s quelling glare, expecting a harsh rebuke. I had not raised my voice at him for years, not since I was hardly more than a boy, and he had never taken kindly to it. 

“What exactly did you say happened again?” he asked quietly, every syllable throbbing with barely suppressed anger. “What unbearable memory is it that binds Mademoiselle Daaé’s tongue, Raoul? Is it truly something so awful that she has not even the strength left to wish justice upon the perpetrator?”

And so I told him. I was as brief about it as I could manage, for Christine’s sake, but I told him of how I had been ensnared, and how she had been forced to choose between my life and her own freedom, and how the Phantom had eventually released us. I did not mention that she had kissed him; even now the memory left a bitter taste in my mouth which I had no desire to speak about, and especially not to my father. When I had finished, he regarded me with great scrutiny. 

“You say that this madman would have murdered you in cold blood?”

“Yes. I’ve told you and the police so already.”   
“And Christine…?” 

“Would have traded her life for mine in an instant. She was deceived just like the rest of us; upon being disillusioned she would have done anything to stop him.” Another lie, but I told it as brazenly as the Phantom himself might have. Anything to convince my father so that she would not have to be interrogated again; no matter how civil this Monsieur Favreaux had been, the experience could hardly have been less than awful torment for her, as her silence afterwards had testified. Monsieur Favreaux, the gentle inspector! I should have very much liked to hit him for whatever he had done to cause Christine pain. As for this Phantom… if I didn’t know how much it would hurt her, I would be sorely tempted to agree with my father. The man deserved to be hung on the highest gallows in Paris for his crimes, even Christine could hardly deny it. 

“And so you are quite sure that there is nothing more which either of you can tell us which might further this murderer’s capture?” my father prompted. I shook my head. 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“Very well.” He turned on his heel and began to pace back and forth again. “I think I am going to hire a private detective,” he said at last. “Clearly the police cannot do their job, and this— thing— is a danger to all of society while he lives. I will expect you to tell him everything you have told me and more, if you can remember it, and Christine—” 

“Questioning Christine will get you nowhere, and you’ll only lose her trust,” I argued. “She’s already told you everything she knows; it would be pointless to put her through that again—” 

“Enough, Raoul!” my father snapped, turning on me. “With all your concern for the lovely Miss Daaé, one would think she was quite the fragile, helpless little chorus girl, which both of us know to be false! Innocent as she may be, we are going to need her help if we are to apprehend this—” 

“Christine isn’t being questioned again, and that’s final,” I declared furiously. “I’ll do whatever you want to try and help catch the Phantom, but I won’t allow that. As far as I’m concerned, Christine will hear nothing of this new investigation; it’ll only distress her more.” 

If looks could kill, the glare that I received from my father would have been more than enough to ensure that I dropped dead on the spot. “Get out of my office, boy,” he ordered, “and never speak to me like that again, especially not in defense of a girl who is involved in one of the largest scandals in Paris and hasn’t a penny to her name. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Perfectly so, sir,” I managed to say through clenched teeth; then I spun on my heel and strode out of his office, narrowly resisting the urge to slam the door behind me. How dare he make such demands of Christine— and especially now, just because he was impatient to capture the Phantom? It was pure selfishness and pride; that’s what it was— the old-fashioned de Chagny pride and aversion to scandal, all in the name of some age-old tradition of upholding the family name. Well, tradition could hang itself right alongside the Phantom for all I cared. I hardly noticed where I was going until I nearly ran into Christine in the hallway. 

“Raoul, what’s the matter? You look like thunder.” I looked down at her, and she placed a cool, gentle hand on my arm. The sparkle in her beautiful, wide hazel eyes was replaced with concern, and worry lined her features. “What happened?” she asked quietly. I shook my head. 

“Nothing. It’s just my father; he’s being unreasonable; he’s angry that there’s no news of…” 

“Of Erik?” she asked, even more quietly. I nodded, and a small shudder ran over her, but she did not look away, and there was a strange determination in the set of her jaw as she spoke. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He ought to be angry with me instead; I’m the one who went to Monsieur Favreaux—” 

“No,” I told her firmly, clasping her small hand in my own. “You did what you had to, Christine, and that’s enough. It’s unreasonable to ask more of you.”

“It isn’t,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to our interlaced fingers. “We both know it’s not; your father has every right to expect more of me. I am living under his roof, after all.” 

“And if he did demand more— would you give it?” I asked her. She looked back up at me, the brilliance of her eyes glistening with the same pain and exhaustion that i had seen there ever since the first interrogation. 

“No,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t, Raoul; it would be too much of a betrayal— of Erik, and, as great as his crimes are, I can’t believe he deserves death. I couldn’t speak against him again.”

“Well, you won’t have to, not if I have any say in it,” I reassured her. “And it won’t do you any good to dwell on it. Come on; let’s go out— let’s do something. I daresay we could both use the distraction.” 

For a moment, I thought she would resist, but then she relented, and smiled up at me. “I’d like that,” she said. “What are we going to do?” 

Half an hour later, arrayed in our warmest hats and cloaks and scarves, we went to purchase Christine’s first pair of ice skates. She protested a little on account of the expense, but I laughed and insisted on it, and soon she was lacing up her own pair of skates, the glow of excitement fresh on her cheeks. 

Despite her natural grace from years of dancing in the corps de ballet at the Opera Populaire, she was wobbly and awkward the first time I guided her out onto the ice, and clung to my arm to keep herself from falling.

“It really isn’t that difficult,” I told her. “You’ll fall a couple times, but you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Come on, Christine— let go.” 

She did, and for a moment I thought she’d gotten it, but within minutes, down she went, laughing wholeheartedly at her own clumsiness. As lighthearted and slightly ridiculous a picture she made sprawled in the ice, I couldn’t help but join in. 

“You’ll have bruises all over tomorrow if you keep it up like this,” I called teasingly, skating over to her. She cocked her head to one side and looked up at me. 

“Who said anything about this becoming a common occurrence? It can’t be that hard to catch onto; you do it effortlessly.” 

“After years of practice. Here, let me help you up.” 

But, after a few minutes, down she went again in an ignominious heap of petticoats and scarves and curls, still laughing good-naturedly at herself. I could not help but smile at the brilliance in her now rosy cheeks despite her fall and the sparkle in her eyes as she laughed. 

“Do you need to hold onto me again?” I asked, smiling as I reached out my hand to her. But, this time, Christine playfully swatted it away. 

“I’ve almost got it,” she protested indignantly, struggling amid her many layers to find her footing again. “It’s only a matter of time—” 

“And bruises,” I teased. “But you know, I’ve heard that’s the most effective way to learn anyway.” 

Christine, by now on her feet, feigned hurt at this statement. “You really think I’ll fall that often?” she demanded. “And what if I say I won’t?” It was my turn to laugh. 

“You’ll have to do more than just say it. Come on; let me help you.”

And she relented, placing her small, unsteady hand on my arm and letting me guide her around the rink. After a few moments, I gently placed my free hand over hers, and we glided across the ice together, as careless and free as two bluebirds in the winter sky. 

Several hours later, we made our way back home, our cheeks fresh and rosy with the cold and exercise and our spirits refreshed. Christine had slung her skates over her shoulder as she walked, as though she had been accustomed to doing so her entire life, laughing and chatting merrily with me. I tried to smile and talk as she did, but with every step closer to home the slush on my boots seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until I found myself wishing that we could return to the ice rink for several hours more. I did not want to face my father, or Philippe, and the very idea of supper with the rest of my family that night bordered on intolerable. Scowling inwardly at the unwelcome prospect, I stopped Christine and asked her if she would like some hot chocolate from a nearby street vendor. 

She readily agreed, and soon the two of us were sipping our steaming chocolate from the paper cups that the street vendor had given us. The chocolate was rich, creamy, and delicious, much more so than any I had ever tasted in my own household. I did not pause to consider that my enjoyment might stem less from the quality of the drink than the company I shared it in. but even the excellence of the hot chocolate could only delay the inevitable for so long, and we eventually found ourselves facing the gate of my house. 

My spirits sank as I escorted Christine to the door, and, although she said nothing concerning the matter, I could have sworn that a small sigh fell from her lips. A strange heaviness seemed to have settled between us, and I did not have the power to dispel it, so we both faced the unwelcoming prospect before us in silence. I wished I could say something, anything, but I could not think of what to say. At last Christine looked up at me and broke the silence. 

“It’s been a delightful afternoon, Raoul,” she said. “Thank you.”

I smiled, even though my heart was not in it. “It’s nothing, Christine. I enjoyed it as much as you did.” But the exhaustion had returned to her eyes, the same exhaustion that I had grown accustomed to seeing there so often lately, and I inwardly cursed myself for not being able to banish it for longer. I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her there and never let her go, but some instinct told me that now was not the time and that Christine would shrink from my embrace. So I simply shrugged instead. “Perhaps you’d like to do it again sometime?” 

A smile made its way across her lips. “I’d like that very much.” 

“Then we’ll do it,” I promised, and then I opened the door and escorted her inside. 

Manon was waiting for me in the parlor. “Raoul?” she asked. “Can I talk to you alone?” 

I glanced down at Christine, and she nodded in understanding, quickly withdrawing and returning to her room; I supposed it was to change out of her wet things. As soon as she was out of earshot, I turned to Manon. 

“What is it?” 

“Father says he has hired a private detective to investigate the mystery of the opera ghost,” she said, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard. “Have you heard?” 

“I knew that he intended to; he told me so this afternoon. Surely he hasn’t found one in the last few hours?”

“He went out not long after you left with Christine. I think he might have.” 

I scowled. I had no doubt that Father had done exactly as Manon suspected; he had been furious this afternoon, and it would be just like him to go out in a temper and hire a detective, impatient for the investigation to clear up. 

“Well, what do you think?” Manon asked, the thinly disguised curiosity in her tone sparking my annoyance. “Christine seemed dreadfully reluctant to talk last time; do you think she’ll have to again? And of course you’ll have to give a statement too, you know—”

“Christine won’t hear a word of any of the matter, not if I have any say in it,” I interrupted, decidedly irked by Manon’s prying. “And you’re not to say a word of it to or around her, do you hear? She’s already told the police everything she knows and I won’t have her upset again on some ridiculous whim of Father’s.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so sensitive about it,” Manon retorted. “Goodness knows I’d never intentionally upset her; I’ve seen how closely you watch her every movement and I wouldn’t dare disturb the blissful ignorance you seem determined to keep her in. Does she even know that you’re involved in the investigation as deeply as you are?” 

I flushed, and Manon raised her eyebrows in pointed scorn and triumph. 

“Well?” she demanded. “Does she?”   
“No.” 

“And do you intend to tell her?” 

I scowled. “I don’t know.” But I did. I had no intention of revealing to Christine just how much I’d done to help the police ensnare the Phantom; I didn’t dare. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid of what she might think of me; I had acted according to my conscience and could not regret my actions on a moral basis. However, I could not help but recoil a little when I thought of how Christine’s cheek would pale if she knew, and how the words would catch in her slender throat as she came to the full realization of what I had told her. Only when I thought of that did I despise myself for my perfectly justifiable choices. Perhaps one day I would find a way to explain it to her, especially if the Phantom was never caught. But for now it would remain secret. 

“You know it’ll be very difficult to hide if he’s caught and sentenced to death,” Manon pointed out, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Especially if you’re both called to the trial as witnesses. Have you considered that part yet?”

“Enough!” I burst out in frustration, turning on her. “It’s none of your business what I do and don’t tell Christine— none of this, not even that slightest bit of it, has anything to do with you, and I’ll thank you to stay out of it! It’s difficult enough without your prying!” 

Immediately I fell silent, regretting my outburst. Manon regarded me with eloquent disdain as only an older sister could. “I didn’t have any intention of getting involved,” she replied airily. “I’d like to keep my name as far away from scandal as possible, thank you, and you ought to think of it as well. And I don’t intend to breathe a word of it to Christine— she’s a very sweet girl, when all’s said and done, and I have no desire to hurt her, no matter what you seem to have convinced yourself. I just thought you might be interested to hear about the detective from someone other than Father; that’s all. You really needn’t be so touchy about it.” And with that, she swept from the room, closing the door behind her with a bang. 

I let out a barely suppressed cry of frustration, clenching my fists at my sides so as to prevent myself from punching the empty air. How dare Manon— how dare she? It wasn’t any of her business; she only cared for gossip, whether she liked Christine or not— and at this point, it was little credit to her if she did. As for Father… as sympathetic as I was to his cause, I half wished the Phantom would strangle the detective before the investigation was properly underway, just to spare Christine any possibility of finding out or being questioned again. 

It really was all for the best, I swore to myself. It had to be, even though I could hardly understand any of it, and least of all Christine’s reactions. The Phantom had hurt her— physically, emotionally, and yet she wept over his memory as though he were the person closest to her in the world rather than a wanted murderer. And, as desperately as I wanted to, I could not believe that her actions were merely the result of the boundless depths of her compassion. But surely she held nothing else in her heart for him besides forgiveness, after all that he had done? Could even Christine care for a man who had committed such crimes, who had even done his best to end my life? 

The very memory of the lasso around my throat, posing an impossible choice to her and a fatal threat to me, made my blood boil, and I found myself so furious that I was relieved. At least I knew exactly where I stood in regard to this Phantom, even if I could not say the same for Christine. He was a man, yes, but as a man he deserved the same rage and scorn that I would have bestowed upon any other capable of his cruelty, and I owed him nothing. He deserved justice for his actions, and I grimly reflected that I would not be sorry to be part of the hand that dealt it to him. If only Christine were not so deeply affected by it all! 

(Christine) 

The nightmares continued. I did not speak a word of it to anyone besides Charlotte, but scarcely a night passed in which I was not visited with some fresh torment, until I found myself keeping my eyes open later and later each night through sheer force of will, preferring exhaustion to another awful vision. But at last, weary beyond words, I always relented to the deceptively sweet embrace of sleep, and thereby fell prey time and time again to my own fantasies. 

Sometimes it was Erik’s capture and death which I endured; other times I was forced to witness his trial and testify against him, watching as he was condemned by the same voice which he had trained in the tongues of the angels. Some nights he was my tormentor, seizing me and dragging me down to the unspeakable horrors that he had formed in the darkness, naming Raoul’s life as the ultimate cost of my freedom and leaving me helpless in his terrible web of schemes. Some nights I did not have time to swear my surrender to him before the red lasso tightened around Raoul’s neck for the last time. Every time I closed my eyes, I did not know whether it would be Erik or Raoul that I saw dangling from a fatal noose, or some other horror from the depths of my imagination. 

These horrors were so great that, in the days and weeks following the interrogation, I began to doubt the innocence of my own mind. The girl I had been at my father’s death could not have conceived of such awful fantasies— she would have been appalled and crushed by the sheer horror of it all. So would the girl who had performed as Elissa in her triumphant debut. How long ago it all seemed now! Had I really changed that much? And— this was the question I hardly dared broach even to myself— since I was quite capable of imagining such terrible things, how much was I capable of actually doing now? I knew I was quite capable, at least, of a passion which overwhelmed my senses and thwarted any and all attempts at logic or rationality. 

And I knew that this passion, although it may have been lit by some doing of Erik’s, was not of his making; it was wholly my own, and always had been; I had only allowed myself to discover it under the influence of his music. Even now I could sense it always there, just below the surface, like the red-hot insides of a black, unassuming coal, ready at any moment to burst forth in an ecstasy of pain and fire and beauty. I dared not think of what I might do while under its influence. And I dared not hate Erik for his role in awakening it within me. 

For I found that, for some strange, unaccountable reason, I could not hate Erik. I knew that by all rights I ought to— his actions were more than enough to inspire a fury in me greater than any I had ever known, the likes of which I had only experienced that once in the depths of his lair, when I had pleaded with him for Raoul’s life and been met only with his inflexible, unthinking rage. But now I could only see the man who, in desperation and brokenness, had made a final grasp for what he believed would grant him happiness. Who was I to despise him for it? Perhaps I would have fared little better in his stead. And so I could not help my forgiveness any more than I could help the piercing anguish of that awful memory, and thus it was that I was secretly glad as the police were thwarted in their efforts, no matter how angry it made Monsieur de Chagny. 

I was quite certain now that whatever respect Monsieur de Chagny had gained for me had long since dissipated when the police had continued to be frustrated despite my confession. He did not speak to me once as the days went on and there was no news of Erik, and his countenance darkened more and more each time I passed him in the hallway. Raoul would not tell me so directly, but I knew that he thought I had willfully deceived the police, or withheld information. And, as neither of these suspicions were false, I had no defense for myself in the matter. 

I was reflecting on the matter when Raoul met me at the bottom of the stairs one day, just before supper, and offered me his arm with a playfully exaggerated flourish.

“Why, my charming mademoiselle,” he greeted me, “may I have the honor of escorting you to the dining room?” 

I felt my cheeks flush a little, and, smiling, placed my hand in his. “Of course, monsieur. I would be honored.”

“But of course the honor is all mine,” he insisted; then, dropping his playful manner, he stopped and looked down at me, his countenance suddenly serious. “No, but really, Christine; I need to ask you something.” 

I looked up at him, searching his steadfast, warm blue eyes for some hint of what question burned his lips, but was met with nothing but the strange intensity that he had assumed. “Yes?” 

He paused, as though unsure of how to continue; then he gently reached out and brushed my cheek. “You look pale,” he said. “You have been pale rather often lately. Are you well?” 

I hesitated. “I— I don’t know. I’ve been very tired lately, and with the investigation…” My gaze faltered, and I looked away. I could not tell him about the visions that haunted me every night; I refused to admit to my nearly crippling exhaustion. My head throbbed constantly; even as I stood there at the foot of the stairs, the world tilted ever so slightly around me… but I knew if I breathed so much as a word of this to Raoul, he would take me quite seriously, and I did not wish to lay another burden on him, especially when he was already encumbered by family disputes for my sake. So I said nothing more. Raoul placed a gentle finger beneath my chin and tilted my face up to his. 

“Are you sure it’s nothing more, Christine?” 

I did not answer him; I could not. I had no words with which to tell him— how could I, when I hardly knew myself/? I was suddenly very overwhelmed by my own lack of understanding. There was nothing to be sure of anymore; even my own emotions had turned traitor and refused to be governed. And how could I explain any of that to Raoul? 

“It’s only a slight weariness,” I said at last. “It will pass eventually— all of this will pass eventually.” 

Raoul looked down at me with a strange, searching intensity in his gaze. I knew he was dissatisfied with my answer, but what else could I say? A flash of movement caught my eye, and the world around me tilted alarmingly. Reeling a little from the sudden dizziness, I stepped away from Raoul as Phillipe de Chagny walked into the hall. 

He paused, fixing a scrutinizing gaze upon us, and Raoul, sensing his brother’s presence, turned around. I was suddenly very aware that my hand was still in his. Philippe’s lips drew together very tightly. 

“Well, forgive me for what must be a most unwelcome intrusion upon your privacy, Raoul,” he said coldly. “I merely intended to find Father and speak to him before supper. I have just returned from the police station, you see, and I have some news which might interest him.” 

“What is it?” Raoul asked, his fingers involuntarily tightening around mine. Philippe glanced at me as though just realizing I was there, his expression one of utmost disapproval. 

“I am afraid I cannot discuss it in present company,” he said. “It is of a rather sensitive nature, you see, and—” 

“Anything you have to say to me about the investigation, you can say to Christine as well,” Raoul interjected angrily. “There’s no reason to hide it under some pretentious veil of secrecy; she’s just as trustworthy as I am.” 

“Of course, but I would not wish to distress the lovely Miss Daaé; I hear the subject leaves her quite tongue-tied, and I would hate to deprive Paris of such an exquisite voice,” Philippe replied. “It would be quite rude of me.” 

“How dare you—” Raoul began, but Philippe had already swept towards the kitchen with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“Enough, Raoul. Supper will get cold, and if you must impose your lovemaking on us all by doing it in the middle of the hallway, the least you can do is hurry it along, so we can still enjoy a warm soup, at least.” 

I found my fingers clenching themselves into a tight fist at my side. How dare he— how dare he? To be sure, I had given him little reason to think highly of me, but I had done nothing to deserve such insults— and to my face, too! I very nearly started after him, fully intending to confront him over his rudeness, but Raoul gently stopped me. 

“He won’t listen,” he said furiously. “It’ll only bring him satisfaction to know that he’s gotten to you. Come on; let’s go to supper.” 

I struggled for a moment to compose myself. He was right; my anger could only bring Philippe a fresh triumph, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. After all, I had faced criticism and insult and scandal alike ever since my Elissa debut, and was still able to hold my head high. Why should Philippe de Chagny think he was a greater force to be trifled with than the journalists and gossips of Paris— than La Carlotta herself? Let him stew in his own incompetence; I owed him no reaction. Fresh disdain bearing me up, I looked up at Raoul. 

“You’re right; we’d best go to the table. It would be a tragedy indeed if the soup were to get cold.” 

Raoul’s lips twitched in what might have been a guilty smile, and I allowed him to escort me to the dining room, and partook of the meal there without sparing the insufferable Philippe de Chagny so much as a glance. 

But even anger could only sustain me for so long, and, no matter what I had told Raoul, I was not well. The dining room was unusually hot and oppressive, despite the chill of the wintry day, and I was obliged to pause eating several times to steady myself against an overwhelming wave of dizziness, resisting the urge to wipe away the cold sweat that was breaking out on my forehead. At last, as dessert was being served, Madame de Chagny seemed to notice, and came to my rescue. 

“Miss Daaé,” she said quite suddenly, “you look as white as a sheet. Are you quite well?” 

“Quite, thank you,” I stammered, smarting under Philippe’s barely concealed smirk from across the table. “I— I think I just need a breath of fresh air. Please excuse me.” And I nearly fled from the dining room, away from the stunned de Chagnys, away from the elegant saucers and napkins and Raoul’s concerned expression, and I did not stop until I reached my room, nearly slamming the door behind me. How could I have been so weak as to not be capable of facing dinner tonight, of all nights? My head throbbed terribly, and I knew I would hardly have been able to deny myself a moment longer, but the memory of Philippe’s scornful gaze seemed to pierce my soul, and I could not bear it. To think that I had been forced to flee— quite literally, to run— from him! I very nearly despised myself for it. 

It was in this state that Charlotte found me. She had brought a cup of tea and a cool, wet cloth for my forehead, and I accepted both gratefully, for, as much as I would have liked to fume over Raoul’s older brother for several hours longer, I did not have the energy to, and I knew it. 

Charlotte was uncharacteristically quiet as she pressed the cloth to my head, and I did my best to submit to her care, although I was very nearly too furious to sit still. At last I could bear it no longer, and, setting down my tea so abruptly that the saucer rattled, threw the rag away. Charlotte raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. 

“Christine? You’d best leave that alone; you’re very hot and I’m afraid you’ll catch a fever if you don’t let it be.” 

I scowled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. It's only a bit of exhaustion.” 

The silence with which Charlotte met this argument was far more eloquent than any suggestion to the contrary which she might have made. She watched me thoughtfully for a few moments, then, with uncanny perception, asked, “What happened at dinner?” 

I glanced up at her in surprise. “What do you mean?” 

She shrugged. “You’re not usually this agitated. Someone must have said something. Master Philippe, perhaps?”

I gaped at her. 

“You weren’t listening, were you?” 

“Of course not,” she replied with a smile. “I didn’t have to; he’s made no secret of his dislike for you.” I scowled again. 

“He most certainly hasn’t.” 

“Well, I’m not one to speak ill of my employers or their family,” Charlotte said lightly, “but I wouldn’t be sorry to help you in any way I can, if you’ll only say the word. It can’t be easy for you to be living with a family like the de Chagnys all of a sudden; I daresay it’s quite different from the opera.”

I would have allowed this remark to pass, but then I remembered something Philippe had said, something that had sent chills down my spine despite the heat of my anger. “I know it’s hardly my business to ask— but you haven’t happened to hear any news of the investigation, have you?” 

A strange expression crossed Charlotte’s face, but it was quickly replaced with blank confusion. “No,” she said quickly. “There doesn’t seem to be any news. The police are at a loss.”

I sighed. “That’s what Raoul said. I only wondered if…”

“If perhaps the servants had heard differently?” 

I blushed at the frankness of the question. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve heard nothing, at least,” Charlotte said firmly. “I’ll keep an ear out for it, but I doubt there’ll be much news. And now I’ve really got to get back to work. Do try and sleep well tonight; I’m afraid you’ll catch a fever if you don’t.” And with that, she left the room, and I stared after her, confused by her abrupt departure. If I hadn’t known that surely Raoul would tell me everything as soon as he knew it himself, I would have thought that she was hiding something.


End file.
